GIFT   OF 
C.   H.    Shinn 


C]^e  jHonft'js  ancööinö. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  BY  S.  H.  ADAMS. 


^^  Of 


THE  MONK'S    WEDDING 


^    U^Ol^EL 


BY 


Convali  jjcrtiinantj  fHtjia 


^^^^. 


SI^- 


P^'  *y 


BOSTON 

CUPPLES    AND     HURD 

g4  Boylston  Street 
1887 


i   '-'^  ■'^--  ■■"> 


(^S^S^ 


Copyright,  1SS7, 
By  Cupples  and  Hurd. 


A II  Rights  Reserved. 


Gift  of 


CThe  f^Döe  i^arfe  iprrgg. 


THE  MONK'S  WEDDING. 


It  was  evening  in  Verona.  Round  a 
spacious  hearth,  glowing  with  a  fire  which 
filled  its  roomy  depth  and  centre,  sat  .a 
princely  group.  In  the  centre  —  Lord  and 
Master  —  was  that  Scaliger  whom  they 
called  Cangrande.  Of  the  blooming  ladies 
on  either  side  of  him,  the  one  nearest  to  the 
fire  and  half  in  shadow,  was  his  wife ;  the 
other  upon  whom  the  full  light  shone,  his 
relative  and  friend.  Near  them  were  the 
other  members  of  the  party,  leaving  the 
remainder  of  the  hearth  free,  according  to 
courtly  custom,  and  with  significant  glances 
and  half-suppressed  laughter  they  were  tell- 
ing stories. 

Into  this  brilliant,  joyous  company,  a  grave 
man  entered,  whose  stern  features  and  long 
flowing  robe  seemed  out  of  another  world. 

"  Prince,  I  come  to  warm  myself  at  your 
hearth,"    said    the    stranger,    in    a    tone    of 


^  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

mingled  seriousness  and  disdain,  adding  re- 
proachfully, "  The  negligent  servants,  despite 
this  frosty  evening,  have  delayed,  or  for- 
gotten, to  light  the  fire  in  the  upper  guest- 
chamber." 

"  Take  a  seat  beside  me,  my  Dante, "  re- 
plied Cangrande,  "  but,  if  you  would  feel  a 
genial  warmth,  you  must  not  sit,  as  is  your 
wont,  mutely  gazing  at  the  flames.  We  are 
amusins:  each  other  with  stories  and  the  hand 
which  has  to-day  forged  the  Terza  Rima  (for 
in  my  astrological  chamber  I  overheard  you 
scanning  the  verse, )  this  mighty  hand,  I  say, 
must  consent  to  grasp  our  diverting  plaything 
without  shivering  it  to  pieces.  Dismiss  the 
Goddesses  "  —  he  meant  the  Muses  —  "  for  a 
while  and  satisfy  yourself  v/ith  these  l^^ely 
mortals  "  —  and  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the 
hand  Cangrande  directed  the  eyes  of  his 
guest  to  the  two  ladies.  Seemingly  uncon- 
scious of  his  presence,  the  taller  of  them  had 
not  thought  of  moving,  whilst  the  younger 
and  more  sprightly  one  gladly  made  place 
for  the  Florentine  beside  her.  Disregard- 
ing, however,  the  invitation  of  his  host  he 
proudly  chose  a  seat  at  the  end  of  the  table. 


f 

The  Monk's   Weddhig,  5 

Either  he  was  displeased  at  finding  two  ladies 
at  the  side  of  the  Prince,  if  only  for  an  even- 
ing, or  he  was  disgusted  with  the  court-fool 
who,  with  legs  stretched  out  before  him,  was 
sitting  on  Cangrande's  mantle  which  had 
fallen  to  the  ground. 

This  fool,  a  toothless  old  man,  with  goggle 
eyes  and  soft  sensual  mouth,  fit  only  for  gab- 
bling and  licking  sweet-meats,  was  beside 
Dante,  the  one  elderly  man  in  the  company. 
He  was  called  Gocciola,  which  means  "  little 
drop  " —  because  it  was  his  habit  to  secretly 
collect  the  little  drops  clinging  to  the  empty 
glasses.  He  hated  the  Florentine  with  a 
kind  of  childish  spite,  seeing  in  him  a  rival 
for  the,  not  always  daintily  bestowed,  favor  of 
the  prince.  He  made  up  a  face,  and  grin- 
ning scornfully,  had  the  boldness  to  call  the 
attention  of  his  pretty  neighbor  on  the  left 
to  the  profile  of  the  poet  sharply  outlined 
upon  the  ceiling  of  the  lofty  room.  Dante's 
profile  was  like  that  of  a  gigantic  woman, 
w4th  long  aquiline  nose  and  drooping  lips  — 
one  of  the  Parese  —  or  weird  sisters.  The 
light-hearted  maiden  turned  aside  to  hide  a 
childlike   laugh.      A   clever  looking   youth, 


6  The  Monk's   Wedding, 

who  now  drew  nearer  and  was  named  Asca- 
nio,  helped  her  to  smother  it  by  addressing 
Dante  with  that  measure  of  reverence  with 
which  the  poet  Hked  to  be  approached. 

"  Thou  who  art  Italy's  Homer  and  Virgil" 
—  he  said  —  "I  beg  of  thee  scorn  not  to 
share  in  our  innocent  sport.  Deign  to  en- 
tertain us  tonight,  not  with  song,  but  with 
story. " 

"  What  is  your  theme  1  "  Dante  asked, 
still  harshly  though  somewhat  less  ungra- 
ciously than  at  first. 

"  Sudden  change  of  profession,  with  good, 
bad,  or  laughable  results.  "  the  youth  replied 
quickly.  Dante  was  silent  for  a  moment ; 
with  melancholy  eyes  he  thoughtfully  sur- 
veyed the  company  which  did  not  wholly  dis- 
please him,  for  he  discovered,  together  with 
many  shallow  brows,  some  that  were  strik- 
ingly noble  and  powerful.  "  Has  any  one 
of  you  made  the  uncowling  of  a  monk  his 
theme  ?  "  he  enquired,  already  in  a  milder 
tone. 

"Yes,  Dante,  "  answered  a  soldier  with  a 
slightly  foreign  accent,  who  was  dressed  in 
chain  armor,  had   an    earnest,   good-natured 


The  Mo7tk's   Wedding,  7 

face,  and  wore  a  long  drooping  moustache. 
"  I  have  related  the  story  of  the  young 
Manuccio  who  leapt  over  the  walls  of  his 
cloister  to  become  a  soldier.  " 

*'  He  did  right,  "  responded  Dante,  "for he 
had  deceived  himself  as  to  his  callino:. " 

A  pert  and  somewhat  voluptuous  Paduan, 
named  Tsotta,  now  interrupted  with  —  "Mas- 
ter, I  have  narrated  the  story  of  Helena 
Manenta,  who  after  her  first  curl  had  fallen 
under  the  consecrated  shears  covered  the 
rest  with  both  hands  and  slurred  over  her 
nun's  vows,  for  among  the  people  in  the  nave 
of  the  church  she  had  caught  sight  of  her 
lover  who  was  carried  off  into  slavery,  but 
had  been  miraculously  released,  and  was  now 
hanging  up  his  chains  " —  she  was  going  to 
say  —  "  in  the  church,"  when  Dante  cut  short 
her  chatter  by  saying,  "  And  she  also  did 
well  for  she  acted  out  the  instincts  of  her 
amorous  nature,  but  I  shall  tell  you  of  a 
wholly  different  case  from  any  that  has  been 
here  mentioned.  There  was  a  monk  who,  not 
from  his  own  instinct,  nor  from  any  longing 
for  worldly  pleasure,  or  power,  nor  because 
he  had  mistaken  the  bent  of  his  capacities 


8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

or  talents,  but  for  the  love  of  another,  under 
the  compulsion  of  another's  will,  on  the 
ground  of  what  may  indeed  be  called  filial 
piety,  became  false  to  himself ;  broke  vows 
made  to  himself  even  more  than  to  the 
church ;  flung  aside  the  rope  and  cowl  which 
had  never  been  a  trial  to  him,  but  on  the 
contrary,  had  seemed  a  part  of  himself.  Has 
this  been  related  ?  No  ?  Good  !  Then  I  will 
do  it;  but,  my  patron  and  protector,  say 
what  must  be  the  end  of  such  a  thing  ?  "  — 
and  he  turned  to  Cangrande. 

"  It  must  necessarily  be  bad,"  he  replied 
without  hesitation  —  "  Who  voluntarily  takes 
a  leap,  leaps  well ;  —  who  is  pushed  to  it 
leaps  badly." 

"  Thou  speakest  the  truth.  Prince,"  re- 
sponded Dante,  "  for  if  I  understand  it,  the 
Apostle  meant  just  this  when  writing  to  the 
Romans,  that  '  whatever  is  not  of  faith  is  sin,' 
which  means  acting  against  the  truth  of 
nature,  and  our  highest  convictions." 

"  Is  it  at  all  necessary  that  there  should 
be  monks  ?  "  whispered  a  voice  out  of  a  dim 
corner,  as  if  to  suggest  that  any  sort  of 
escape  from  an  unnatural  condition  was  a 
blessing. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  g 

The  audacious  question  caused  no  shock, 
for  at  this  court  the  boldest  discussion  of 
rehgious  matters  was  allowed,  yes,  smiled 
upon,  whilst  a  free  or  incautious  word  in  re- 
gard to  the  person  or  policy  of  the  Emperor 
was  certain  destruction. 

Dante's  eyes  sought  the  speaker  and 
recognized  in  him  a  young  ecclesiastic  whose 
fingers  toyed  with  the  heavy  gold  cross  he 
wore  over  his  priestly  robe. 

"  Not  on  my  account,"  said  the  Florentine 


deliberately,  "  May  the  monks  die  out  as  [j 
soon  as  a  race  is  born  that  understands  how 
to  unite  justice  and  mercy  —  the  two  highest 
attributes  of  the  human  soul  —  which  seem 
now  to  exclude  one  another.  Until  that 
late  hour  in  the  world's  history  may  the  State 
administer  the  one,  and  the  church  the  other. 
Since,  however,  the  exercise  of  mercy  re- 
quires  a  thoroughly  unselfish  heart,  the  three 
monastic  vows  are  not  only  a  proper  but  es- 
sential preparation  ;  for  experience  has  taught 
that  total  abnegation  is  less  difficult  than  a  j 
reserved  and  partial  self-surrender."  - 

"  Are    there    not   more    bad    than    good 
monks  1  "  persisted  the  doubting  ecclesiastic. 


10  The  Monk's  Weddmg, 

*'  No,"  said  Dante,  "  when  we  take  into  con- 
sideration human  weakness ;  else  there  are 
more  unjust  than  righteous  judges,  more 
cowards  than  brave  warriors,  more  bad  men 
than  good." 

"  And  is  not  this  the  case  ?  "  asked  the 
guest  in  the  dim  corner.  "  No,  certainly 
not,"  Dante  replied,  a  heavenly  brightness 
suddenly  illuminating  his  stern  features. 
"  Is  not  philosophy  asking  and  striving  to 
to  find  out  how  evil  came  into  this  world  ? 
Had  the  bad  formed  the  majority  we  should, 
^  on  the  contrary,  have  been  asking  how  good 
came  into  the  world." 

This  proud  enigmatical  remark  impressed 
the  party  forcibly  but  at  the  same  time  ex- 
cited some  apprehension  lest  the  Florentine 
was  going  deeper  into  scholasticism  instead 
of  relating  his  story. 

Cangrande  saw  his  pretty  young  friend 
suppress  a  yawn,  and  said  "  Noble  Dante, 
are  you  to  tell  us  a  true  story  or  will  you  em- 
bellish a  legend  current  among  the  people  ;  or 
can  you  not  give  us  a  pure  invention  of  your 
own  laurel-crowned  head  ?  " 
^  Dante  replied  with  slow  emphasis,  "  I  evolve 
my  story  from  an  inscription  on  a  grave." 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ii 

"  On  a  grave  !  " 

"  Yes,  from  an  inscription  on  a  grave  stone 
which  I  read  years  ago  when  with  the  Fran- 
ciscans at  Padua.  The  stone  was  in  a  corner 
of  the  cloister  garden  hidden  under  wild  rose 
bushes,  but  still  accessible  to  the  novices,  if 
they  crept  on  all  fours  and  did  not  mind 
scratching  their  cheeks  with  thorns.  I 
ordered  the  prior,  or  I  should  say,  besought 
him,  to  have  the  puzzling  stone  removed 
to  the  library,  and  there  commended  to  the 
interest  of  a  gray-headed  custodian. 

"  What  was  on  the  stone  ? "  interposed 
somewhat  listlessly  the  wife  of  the  Prince. 

"  The  inscription,  "  answered  Dante,  "  was 
in  Latin  and  ran  thus  :  — 

"  Hie  jacet  monachus   Astorre   cum  uxore  Antiope. 
Sepeliebat  Azzolinus.'  " 

"What  does  it  mean  ?  "  eagerly  cried  the 
lady  on  Cangrande's  left. 

The  Prince  fluently   translated :  — 

"  Here    sleeps    the    monk   Astorre    beside    his    wife 
Antiope.     Both  buried  by  Ezzelin." 

"  Atrocious  tyrant !  "  exclaimed  the  impres- 
sible maiden,  "  I  am  sure  he  had  them  buried 


12  The  Month's  Wedding, 

alive,  because  they  were  lovers,  —  and  he  in- 
sulted the  poor  victims,  even  in  their  graves, 
by  styling  her  the  '  wife  of  the  monk ' ,  — 
cruel  wretch  that  he  was  !  " 

"  Hardly,  "  said  Dante,  "  I  construe  it  quite 
differently,  and  according  to  the  history  this 
seems  improbable ;  for  Ezzelin's  rigor  was 
directed  rather  aQ-ainst  breaches  of  ecclesias- 
tical  discipline.  He  interested  himself  little 
either  in  the  making  or  breaking  of  sacred 
vows.  I  take  the  '  Sepeliebat '  in  a  friendly 
sense,  and  believe  the  meaning  to  be  that  he 
srave  the  two  burial. " 

"  Right,  "  exclaimed  Cangrande.  "  Floren- 
tine, I  agree  with  you !  Ezzelin  was  a  born 
ruler,  and,  as  such  men  usually  are,  somewhat 
harsh  and  violent ;  but  nine  tenths  of  the 
crimes  imputed  to  him  are  inventions  — 
forgeries  of  the  clergy  and  scandal-loving 
people. " 

"  Would  it  were  so  !  "  sighed  Dante,  "  at 
any  rate  where  he  appears  upon  the  stage  in 
my  romance  he  has  not  yet  become  the  mon- 
ster which  the  chronicle,  be  it  true  or  false, 
pictures  him  to  be ;  his  cruelty  is  only  begin- 
ning to  show  itself  in  certain  lines  about  the 
mouth. " 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ij 

"  A  commanding  figure,  "  exclaimed  Can- 
grande  enthusiastically,  desiring  to  bring 
him  more  palpably  before  the  audience, 
"  with  black  hair  bristling  round  his  great 
brow,  as  you  paint  him,  in  your  Twelth 
Canto,  among  the  inhabitants  of  Hell.  But 
whence  have  you  taken  this  dark  head  ?  " 

"  It  is  yours, "  replied  Dante  boldly,  and 
Cangrande  felt  himself  flattered. 

"  And  the  rest  of  the  characters  in  my 
story, "  he  said  with  smiling  menace,  "  I 
will  also  take  from  among  you,  if  you  will 
allow  me, "  and  he  turned  toward  his  list- 
eners, "  I  borrow  your  names  only,  leaving 
untouched  what  is  innermost;  for  that  I 
cannot  read. 

"  My  outward  self  I  lend  you  gladly, "  re- 
sponded the  Princess,  whose  indifference  was 
beginning  to  yield. 

A  murmur  of  intense  excitement  now  ran 
through  the  courtly  circle,  and  "Thy  story, 
Dante,  thy  story  !  "  was  heard  on  all  sides. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  and  began :  — 

"  Where  in  a  slender  bow  the  course  of  the 
Brenta  nears    the    city    of     Padua   without 


i^f  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

touching  it,  there  once  glided  over  its  swift 
but  quiet  waters,  to  the  soft  sound  of  flutes,  a 
barque  adorned  with  wreaths,  and  over-laden 
with  a  gay  band  in  festal  array.  It  was  bear- 
ing homeward,  on  a  lovely  summer  after- 
noon, the  bride  of  Umberto  Vicedomini. 
The  Paduan  had  sought  his  betrothed  in  a 
cloister  situated  on  the  upper  course  of  the 
river,  to  which,  according  to  an  old  city  cus- 
tom, maidens  of  rank  retired  before  their 
nuptials  for  pious  exercises.  The  lady  was 
sitting  on  a  purple  cushion  in  the  middle  of 
the  barque  between  her  bridegroom  and  his 
three  beautiful  boys.  Umberto  Vice- 
domini had  lost  the  wife  of  his  youth  five 
years  before  when  the  pest  raged  in  Padua, 
and,  although,  still  in  the  vigor  of  manhood, 
had  but  reluctantly  consented  to  a  second 
union  to  gratify  his  sick  and  aged  father,  who 
daily  urged  it  upon  him. 

With  suspended  oars  the  barque  quietly 
floated  onward  at  the  will  of  the  stream, 
the  boatmen  in  an  undertone  accompanying 
the  soft  music  with  song.  Suddenly  there 
came  a  pause.  All  eyes  were  directed  to  the 
rioht  bank  of  the  river  where  a  tall  rider  was 

C5 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  iß 

reining  in  his  steed ;  with  a  majestic  wave 
of  the  hand,  he  saluted  the  company  in  the 
boat.  A  thrill  of  dismay  passed  from  one  to 
the  other  up  and  down  the  rows  of  seats,  the 
oarsmen  snatched  the  red  caps  from  their 
heads,  and  the  entire  party  including  Diana, 
her  bridegroom,  and  the  boys,  rose  to  do 
reverence  to  Ezzelin,  the  ruler.  With  up- 
lifted arms  quicHy  rttrowing  themselves  into 
all  possible  attitudes  of  humility  and  sub- 
servience they  turned  toward  the  strand  with 
such  violence  that  the  boat  lost  its  balance, 
swayed  for  an  instant  to  the  right  and  capsized 
A  shriek  of  terror,  a  whirlpool,  then  a  void  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream  filled  from  time  to 
time  with  heads  suddenly  emerging  only  to 
sink  again,  or  with  the  floating  wreaths  which 
had  adorned  the  unlucky  barque.  Help  Vv'as 
not  far  distant.  A  little  lower  down  on  the 
river  was  a  small  fishing-port  where  horses 
and  litters  had  been  waiting  to  convey  the  now 
drowning  party  to  their  homes  in   Padua. 

The  two  first  boats  which  started  to  their 
relief  approached  rapidly  from  opposite  di- 
rections. In  the  one,  beside  an  old  dwarf 
with  shaggy  beard,  stood  Ezzelin  the   tyrant 


i6  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

of  Padua,  and  the  innocent  cause  of  this  catas- 
trophe. In  the  other,  and  coming  from  the 
left  shore,  a  young  monk,  with  a  boatman, 
who,  at  the  moment  of  the  accident  was 
about  to  row  the  dusty  pilgrim  across  the 
stream.  Between  them  on  the  top  of  the 
water  was  now  seen  a  mass  of  blonde  hair, 
which  the  monk,  kneeling,  seized  with  out- 
stretched arm,  while  the  boatman  held  the 
boat  steady  with  all  his  strength  on  the  other 
side.  By  means  of  a  thick  braid  the  monk 
at  last  raised  a  head  with  eyes  shut  fast, 
and  assisted  by  Ezzelin,  who  was  at  his  side, 
dragged  a  woman,  in  heavily  dripping  gar- 
ments, out  of  the  current.  The  tyrant  had 
sprung  from  his  own  boat  into  the  other,  and 
now  contemplated  the  lifeless  face  before  him, 
which  seemed  to  wear  an  expression  of  both 
defiance  and  unhappiness.  Ezzelin's  gaze 
betrayed  a  species  of  satisfaction  —  perhaps 
at  the  repose  of  death,  or  perhaps  at  the 
grand  features  before  him. 

"Do  you  know  her,  Astorre?"  he  asked  of 
the  monk,  and  when  the  latter  shook  his  head, 
Ezzelin  continued,  "  See !  it  is  the  wife 
of  your  brother." 


The  Monk^s  Wedding,  /pr 

The  monk  cast  a  shy  pitiful  look  on  the 
still  face  under  which  the  heavy  eyes 
slowly  began  to  open. 

"Take  her  to  the  shore,"  commanded  Ez- 
zelin,  but  the  monk  gave  her  in  charge  to  his 
boatman,  saying,  "I  must  seek  for  my  brother 
until  I  find  Jiim.  I  will  help  thee,  monk, 
said  the  tyrant,'  yet  I  doubt  if  it  is  possible  to 
save  him ;  I  saw  him  as  he  clasped  his  arms 
tightly  around  his  boys  and  with  the  three 
clinging  to  him  sank  heavily  into  the  depths 
below." 

Meanwhile  the  Brenta  had  become  covered 
with  boats  of  every  description.  The  men 
Y\'ere  fishing  with  hooks,  poles,  angles  and 
nets,  while  towering  over  all  the  workers,  or 
bending  over  the  burdens  raised,  was  the  tall 
form  of  the  governor. 

"Come,  Monk,"  he  said  finally,  "there  is 
nothing  more  here  for  thee  to  do.  Umberto 
and  his  boys  have  now  lain  too  long  in  the 
depths  to  be  brought  back  again  to  life.  The 
current  has  borne  him  far  away  ;  it  will  lay 
them  all  on  the  shore  when  it  is  tired  of 
them." 

"But  do  you  see  the  tents  there  —  yonder } 


i8  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

They  were  pitched  on  the  strand  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  wedding  guests,  but  are  now 
filled  with  their  lifeless,  or  apparently  life- 
less bodies,  surrounded  by  mourning  rela- 
tives and  servants.  Go,  Monk,  and  fulfil  thy 
ofiice.     Comfort  the  living ;  bury  the  dead." 

As  he  spoke  the  monk  was  already  moving 
along  the  shore,  and  soon  disappeared  from 
sio-ht.       Diana  —  bride    and    widow  of  his 

o 

brother  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  friends, 
now  came  up  to  him  —  disconsolate  indeed, 
but  restored  to  her  senses.  The  heavy  hair 
still  dripped,  but  upon  quite  a  different  gar- 
ment, for  a  compassionate  peasant  woman  in 
the  tent  had  taken  possession  of  the  wedding 
robe  and  given  in  exchange  her  own  dress. 
"Pious  brother,"  said  she  to  Astorre,  "I  am 
left  behind  ;  the  litter  intended  for  me  in  the 
confusion  has  been  taken  away  to  bear 
another  to  the  city,  either  of  the  dead  or  the 
living.  I  pray  you  go  with  me  to  the  house 
of  my  father-in-law,  who  is  also  thy  father." 

The  young  widow  deceived  herself.  'Twas 
not  the  panic  and  confusion  which  had  led 
the  servants  of  the  elder  Vicedomini  to  aban- 
don her,  but  sheer  cowardice  and  superstition. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ig 

They  feared  to  take  the  widow  to  the  pas- 
sionate old  man,  and  with  her  the  tidings  of 
the  extinction  of  his  house. 

The  monk,  seeing  many  of  his  brother- 
hood engaged  in  acts  of  mercy,  both  within 
and  without  the  tents,  acceded  to  her  re- 
quest. "Yes,  we  will  go,"  he  said,  and  they 
turned  into  a  road  leading  to  the  city,  whose 
domes  and  slender  bell  tow^ers  soared  into 
the  azure  heavens  before  their  gaze.  The 
way  was  crowded  with  hundreds  of  people 
hurrying  to  and  from  the  strand.  The  two 
walked  on  silently  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
often  separated,  but  always  finding  each  other 
again,  and  had  reached  the  workmen's 
quarter.  There  the  people  were  standing 
everywhere  either  talking  in  a  loud  tone,  or 
whispering  in  groups  —  for  the  accident  had 
brought  the  whole  population  to  their  feet. 
With  sympathetic  curiosity  they  gazed  at  the 
pair  accidentally  brought  together  —  the  one 
having  lost  a  brother,  the  other  a  bride- 
groom. 

The  Monk  and  Diana  were  familiarly 
known  to  every  child  in  Padua,  —  Astorre, 
if  he  did  not  pass  for  a  Saint,  was  yet  reputed 


20  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

a  model  monk ;  he  might  have  been  called 
"  The  monk  of  Padua,"  as  being  the  one  most 
honored  and  revered  by  its  inhabitants  and 
with  reason,  for  he  had  bravely,  yes,  joyfully, 
resigned  the  privileges  of  his  high  rank,  and 
the  boundless  possessions  of  his  family,  and 
exposed  his  life  without  stint,  in  times  of  the 
plague  or  other  public  dangers.  Moreover, 
with  his  chestnut-brown  curly  hair,  soft, 
beaming  eyes  and  aristocratic  bearing,  he 
was  an  attractive  man  —  such  as  people  love 
to  picture  their  saints. 

Diana  was,  in  her  way,  not  less  talked 
about.  Her  well-developed,  powerful  physi- 
que excited  far  greater  admiration  than  more 
delicate  charms  ever  do  amongst  the  people. 
Her  mother  had  been  a  German,  a  Hohen- 
stauffen,  as  some  asserted,  though,  to  be  sure, 
only  by  blood,  not  legitimately.  Germany 
and  Italy,  like  good  sisters,  shared  the  credit 
of  this  grand  figure.         -4 

However  curt  and  reserved  Diana  might 
have  appeared  to  her  equals  she  was  always 
accessible  to  those  beneath  her.  She  en- 
couraged the  poor  people  to  consult  her 
about  their  business  matters,  gave  them  clear 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  21 

and  concise  information,  and  kissed  the  rag- 
gedest  of  the  children.  She  spent  and  gave 
away  money  without  scruple  or  hesitation, 
perhaps,  because  her  father,  the  old  Pizzi- 
guerra,  the  richest  Paduan,  after  Vicedomini, 
was  at  the  same  time  the  most  vulgar  miser, 
and  Diana  was  ashamed  of  her  father's  vice. 

The  loving  people  in  their  hours  of  gossip 
at  taverns  and  elsewhere,  married  her  every 
month  to  some  one  of  the  distinguished 
Paduans,  but  the  reality  did  not  respond  to 
these  pious  wishes.  Three  obstacles  impeded 
a  marriao-e  settlement :  Diana's  hio^h-arched 
and  often  frowninsf  brows  —  her  father's 
hard  closed  fists,  and  the  blind  attachment  • 
of  her  brother  Germano  to  the  tyrant 
whose  possible  destruction  would  involve 
the  faithful  servant,  and  all  his  family.  At 
last  Umberto  Vicedomini  was  betrothed  to 
her,  without  love,  as  the  gossips  said  ;  —  and 
now  he  lay  in  the  Brenta  ! 

Meanwhile  the  two  were  so  absorbed  in 
their  natural  grief  that  they  neither  heard 
nor  heeded  the  eager  talk  which  went  on  at 
their  heels.  Not  that  the  bare  fact  of  the 
monk   and  the  lady  walking  together  gave 


22  The  MonMs  Wedding. 

any  occasion  for  remark.  It  seemed  quite  in 
order  since  it  was  the  monk's  duty  to  com- 
fort her,  and  since  they  must  both  go  the 
same  way;  for  were  they  not  the  most  appro- 
priate messengers  to  bear  the  sad  tidings  to 
the  old  Vicedomini  ? 

The  women  had  lamented  that  Diana 
should  be  forced  to  marry  a  man  who  ac- 
cepted her  merely  as  a  kind  of  substitute 
for  his  dear  departed  wife,  and  pitied  her  in 
the  same  breath  for  having  lost  this  man  be- 
fore the  marriage. 

The  men,  on  the  other  hand,  discussed 
with  Q-esticulations  and  violence  the  burninof 
question  which  the  drowning  in  the  Brenta 
of  the  four  heirs  of  the  first  Paduan  family 
had  opened.  The  wealth  of  the  Vicedomini 
was  proverbial  —  the  head  of  the  family,  as 
shrewd  as  he  was  able  and  energetic,  had 
succeeded  in  remaining  on  good  footing  with 
the  tyrant,  four  times  excommunicated,  and 
the  church,  which  had  put  him  under  the  ban, 
— had  refused  all  his  life  to  busy  himself  even 
in  the  slightest  degree  with  political  matters, 
but  had  devoted  a  tenacious  and  magnifxcent 
strenGTth  of  will  to  the  one  aim  of  increasins; 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  2^ 

the  prosperity  and  worldly  possessions  of  his 
family.  Now  this  was  annihilated.  His 
eldest  son  and  his  grandchildren  lay  in  the 
Brenta.  His  second  and  third  sons  had  in 
this  same  unlucky  year,  only  a  few  months 
before,  vanished  from  the  earth.  The  tyrant 
had  claimed  the  first  and  left  him  behind 
on  one  of  his  wild  battlefields.  The  other, 
of  whom  the  unprejudiced  father  had  made 
a  merchant  In  Venetian  style,  had  been  cru- 
cified by  pirates  on  a  coast  in  the  Orient, 
his  ransom  having  arrived  too  late.  His 
fourth  was  Astorre  —  the  monk.  That  with 
his  dying  breath  the  father  would  attempt 
to  free  Astorre  from  his  monastic  vows, 
the  quick-witted  Paduans  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment question.  Whether  he  would  succeed 
and  the  monk  consent  was  now  matter  of 
dispute  In  the  excited  little  streets. 

Finally  the  strife  became  so  noisy  and 
fierce  that  even  the  grief-absorbed  monk 
could  no  longer  remain  In  doubt  as  to  who 
was  meant  by  the  "egll"  and  "ella"  which 
were  heard  on  all  sides.  For  this  reason,  and 
more  for  his  companion's  sake  than  for  his 
own,  he  turned  into  a  grass-grown  path  his 


24  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

sandals  knew  full  well,  for  It  led  along  the 
damp  decaying  walls  which  surrounded  his 
cloister.  Here  it  was  cool  enough  to  make 
them  shiver,  but  the  dreadful  news  had 
reached  even  this  secluded  spot.  Through 
the  open  windows  of  the  refectory,  built  into 
the  thick  wall,  sounded  the  clatter  of  plates 
at  the  belated  dinner;  the  catastrophe  had 
disturbed  times  and  hours  all  over  the  city. 
.  The  conversation  of  the  brothers  at  the 
table  w^as  so  unusually  loud  and  disputa- 
tious—  so  full  of  "inibus"  and  "atibus"  (the 
monks  spoke  in  Latin),  that  he  knew  they 
were  discussing  the  same  problem  with  the 
people  in  the  streets.  And  though  perhaps 
he  did  not  quite  take  in  the  substance  of 
their  talk,  still  he  could  not  help  knowing 

of  whom  they  talked.     But  what  he  did'^is- 

n 
cover  was 

In  the  midst  of  his  sentence  Dante  gave  a 
sidelong  glance  at  the  aristocratic  young 
priest  who  had  concealed  himself  behind  his 
neighbor. 

"  Two  burning  hollow  eyes,  peering  at  him 
and  the  woman  who  walked  by  his  side. 
They  belonged  to  an  unfortunate  creature, 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  2^ 

a  wretched  monk,  named  Sera^IoDr-ivho  was  / 
consuming  himself  body  and  soul  in  the 
cloister.  With  his  fevered  imagination  he 
had  instantly  conceived  that  the  Brother 
Astorre  would  now  no  lono-er  be  oblis^ed  to 
toil  and  fast,  denying  himself  according  to 
the  rule  of  St.  Francis ;  but  that  by  the 
humor  of  Death  he  was  restored  to  all  his 
worldly  joys  and  possessions  —  and  he  en- 
vied him  madly.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
his  return  home  that  he  might  study  his 
own  face  and  read  in  it  what  the  monk 
had  resolved  upon.  His  eyes  devoured  the 
woman  and  followed  her  steps: 

Astorre  with  his  sister-in-lav/  finally  turned 
into  a  square  surrounded  by  four  city-castles, 
where  thev  entered  a  low  door  leadino:  to  the 
most  distinguished  among  them.  Upon  a 
stone  seat  in  the  courtyard  two  persons  w^ere 
resting,  one  a  fresh  young  German  clad  in 
armor  from  head  to  foot,  the  other  a  grey- 
headed Saracen.  The  German  who  was 
stretched  out  asleep  had  laid  his  blond 
curly  head  in  the  lap  of  the  unbeliever, 
w^ho  likewise  slumbering,  nodded  his  snow- 
white    beard   in    fatherly  fashion   over   him. 


26  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

The  two  belonged  to  Ezzelin's  body  guard, 
which  in  imitation  of  his  father-in-law,  the 
Emperor  Frederick,  was  composed  of  an 
equal  number  of  Germans  and  Saracens. 
The  tyrant  was  in  the  palace.  He  had 
thought  it  his  duty  to  visit  the  old  Vice- 
domini.  In  fact  Astorre  and  Diana  now 
heard  upon  the  winding  stairs  the  few  quiet 
words  in  which  Ezzelin  was  attempting  to 
argue  with  the  old  man,  who  wholly  beside 
himself,  was  weeping  and  cursing  in  a  loud 
voice.  They  remained  standing  at  the 
entrance  to  the  hall  among  the  crowd  of 
pale  menials  who  were  trembling  in  every 
limb.  The  old  man  had  heaped  upon  them 
the  most  violent  oaths,  and  doubling  up  his 
fist  chased  them  all  out  of  his  room  because 
they  had  brought  the  unlucky  tidings  so 
tardily  and  then  hardly  dared  to  stammer 
them  out.  Added  to  this  they  had  heard 
the  step  of  the  terrible  tyrant  in  the  house. 
It  was  forbidden  to  announce  Ezzelin's  ap- 
proach anywhere  on  pain  of  death  —  unhin- 
dered like  a  spirit  he  entered  houses  and 
chambers. 

"And   you    inform  me   of  this  so  coolly, 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  2j 

cruel  man,"  stormed  out  the  Vicedomini  in 
his  despair,  "  as  you  would  tell  the  loss  of  a 
horse,  or  a  harvest !  You  have  murdered 
the  four  —  who  but  you  ?  What  was  the 
need  of  your  riding  to  the  strand  precisely  at-'- 
that  hour  ?  Why  should  you  greet  them 
upon  the  Brenta  ?  You  did  it  to  injure  me. 
Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Fate,"  replied  Ezzelin." 

''  Fate  !  "  yelled  the  old  man,  "fate — star- 
gazing—  conjurations  and  conspiracies  — 
heads  cut  off — women  flung  from  the  pave- 
ment below — young  men  dropping  from  their 
horses,  in  your  crazy  fool-hardy  battles, 
pierced  through  with  a  hundred  arrows  : — 
this  is  your  age  and  rule,  Ezzelin,  you  cursed 
damned  one  !  You  drag  us  all  along  your 
bloody  path ;  all  life,  and  even  death  itself, 
near  you,  is  violent  and  unnatural.  Nobody 
meets  his  end  any  longer  as  a  repentant 
Christian  in  his  bed." 

"  You  do  me  wrong,"  said  the  tyrant,  "  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  church,  it  is 
true  ;  —  'tis  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  — 
but  I  have  never  prevented  you  and  yours 
from  alliance  with    it ;    this    you    know,    or 


28  .  The  MonHs  Wedding, 

you  would  not  dare  to  exchange  letters 
with  the  Holy  See.  Why  are  you  twisting 
that  paper  in  your  hands  to  conceal  from 
me  the  Papal  seal  ?  An  indulgence  ?  —  a 
letter  ?  Give  it  to  me  !  verily  a  letter.  May 
I    read  it  ?     Do  you  allow  me  ?  " 

"  '  Thy  patron  the  Holy  Father  writes  to 
thee  that  should  thy  lineage  become  extinct 
up  to  the  fourth  and  last,  the  monk  —  he, 
ipso  facto,  would  be  released  from  his  vow 
if  with  free  will  and  of  his  own  free  choice 
be  returned  to  the  world.'  Cunning  foe ! 
How  many  ounces  of  gold  has  this  parch- 
ment cost  you  ?  " 

"  Dost  thou  dare  to  scoff  at  me  ? "  howled 
the  Yicedomini.  "  What  remains  to  me  but 
the  monk,  after  the  deaths  of  mv  second  and 
third  son  ?  For  whom  have  I  amassed  and 
hoarded  up  ?  For  the  worms  }  for  thee  .^ 
Would'st  thou  rob  me  ?  No  }  Then  help 
me,  good  father."  (Ezzelin,  not  then  excom- 
municated, had  stood  godfather  to  the  third 
Vicedomini  boy  —  the  same  who  later  sacri- 
ficed himself  for  him  upon  the  battlefield) ; 
"  help  me  to  persuade  the  monk  to  return 
to  the  world    and  take  a    wife  —  command 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  2g 

him  to  do  it,  thou  all  powerful !     Give  him 

to  me    in   place  of  the  son  whom  thou  hast    V^ 

slain ;  do  this  for  me,  if  you  love  me." 

"  This  is  no  concern  of  mine,"  answered 
the  tyrant,  without  the  slightest  emotion. 
"  If  he  is  a  true  monk,  as  I  believe  he  is,  why 
should  he  change  his  profession  ?  That 
the  blood  of  the  Vicedomini  may  not  be 
exhausted  ?  Is  the  life  of  the  world  then 
dependent  on  it  ?  Are  the  Vicedomini  a  ne- 
cessity ?  "  At  this  the  old  man  grew  frantic 
with  rage.  "  Thou  wicked,  cruel  one  —  mur- 
derer of  my  children,  I  see  through  it.  Thou 
—  thou  would'st  be  my  heir  and  carry  on  thy 
mad  campaigns  with  my  money  !  "  Just  then 
he  caught  sight  of  his  daughter-in-law,  who 
had  pressed  through  the  crowd  of  servants 
in  advance  of  the  monk  and  was  standing  on 
the  threshold.  Spite  of  his  physical  weak- 
ness he  rushed  towards  her  stasfs^erinor  • 
seized  and  wrenched  her  hands  apart,  as  if 
to  make  her  responsible  for  the  misfortune^ 
which  had  befallen  them.  "  Where  is  ni}^ 
son,  Diana  ?  "  he  gasped  out.  "  He  lies  in 
the  Brenta,"  she  answered  sadly,  and  her 
blue  eyes  grew  dim. 


JO  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

"  Where  are  my  three  grandchildren  ?  " 

"  In  the  Brenta,"  she  repeated.  "And  you 
bring  me  yourself  as  a  gift  —  you  are  pre- 
sented to  me  ?  "  And  the  old  man  laughed 
discord  an  tly- 

"  Would  that  the  Almighty,"  she  said 
slowly,  "had  drawn  me  deeper  under  the 
weaves,  and  that  thy  children  stood  here  in 
my  stead  !  "  She  was  silent ;  then  bursting 
into  sudden  anger,  "  Does  my  presence  in- 
sult you,  and  am  I  a  burden  to  you  ? " 
Impute  the  blame  to  him  (pointing  to  the 
monk).  He  drew  me  from  the  water  w^hen 
I  was  already  dead  and  restored  me  to 
life." 

The  old  man  now^  for  the  first  time  per- 
ceived his  son,  and  collecting  himself  quickly, 
exhibited  the  powerful  will  w^hich  his  bitter 
grief  seemed  to  have  steeled  rather  than 
lamed. 

"  Really  —  he  drew  you  out  of  the  Brenta  ? 
H'm !  Strange.  The  ways  of  God  are  mar- 
vellous !  " 

He  grasped  the  monk  by  the  shoulder  and 
arm  at  once,  as  if  to  take  possession  of  him 
body  and  soul,  and    dragged  him    along    to 


The  Monk'^  Wedding,  ji 

his  great  chair,  Into  which  the  old  man  fell 
without  relaxing  his  pressure  on  the  arm  of 
his  unresisting  son.  Diana  followed,  knelt 
down  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair,  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  the  arm  of  It,  so  that 
only  the  coil  of  her  blond  hair  was  visible  — 
like  some  inanimate  object.  Opposite  the 
group  sat  Ezzelin,  his  right  hand  upon  the 
rolled-up  letter,  like  a  commander-in-chief 
resting  upon  his  staff. 

"  i\Iy  son  —  my  own  one,"  whimpered  the 
dying  man,  with  a  tenderness  in  which  truth 
and  cunning  mingled,  "  my  last  and  only 
consolation.  Thou  staff  and  stay  of  my  old 
age,  thou  wilt  not  crumble  like  dust  under 
my  trembling  fingers.  Thou  must  under- 
stand," he  went  on,  already  In  a  colder  and 
more  practical  tone,  "  that  as  things  are  it  is 
not  possible  for  thee  to  remain  longer  in  the 
cloister.  It  is  also  according  to  the  canons, 
my  son,  is  it  not,  that  a  monk  whose  father 
is  sick  unto  death,  or  impoverished,  should 
withdraw  in  order  to  nurse  the  author  of  his 
days,  or  to  till  his  father's  acres }  But  I 
need  thee  even  more  pressingly ;  thy  brothers 
and  nephews  are  gone,  and  now  thou  must 


j2  The  MonMs  Wedding, 

keep  the  life-torch  of  our  house  burning. 
Thou  art  a  httle  flame  I  have  kindled,  and 
I  cannot  suffer  it  to  glimmer  and  die  out  in 
a  narrow  cell.  Know  one  thing  ;  "  —  he  had 
read  in  the  warm  brown  eyes  a  genuine 
sympathy,  and  the  reverent  bearing  of  the 
monk  appeared  to  promise  blind  obedience. 
*'  I  am  more  ill  than  you  suppose,  am  I  not, 
Issacher  ?  "  He  turned  to  look  a  spare  little 
man  in  the  face,  who,  with  phial  and  spoon 
in  his  hands,  had  stept  behind  the  chair  of 
the  old  Vicedomini,  and  now  bowed  his  white 
head  in  afflrmation :  —  "I  travel  toward  the 
river;  but  I  tell  thee,  Astorre,  if  my  wish  is 
not  granted,  thy  father  will  refuse  to  step  into 
Charon's  boat,  and  will  sit  cowering  on  the 
twilight  strand." 

The  monk  stroked  the  feverish  hand  of  the 
old  man  with  tenderness,  but  answered  quietly 
in  two  words  —  "  My  vows  !  " 

Ezzelin  unfolded  the  letter.  "  Thy  vows," 
said  the  old  man  in  a  wheedling  tone  — 
"  loosened  strings  ;  filed-away  chains.  Make 
a  movement  and  they  fall.  The  Holy  Church, 
to  which  thy  obedience  is  due,  has  declared 
them  null  and  void,    There  it  stands  written," 


.  The  Monks  Wedding,  jj 

and  his  thin  finger  pointed  to  the  parchment 
with  the  Pope's  seal. 

The  monk  approached  the  governor,  took 
the  letter  from  him  respectfully,  and  read 
it  through,  closely  watched  the  while  by  four 
eyes.  Completely  dazed,  he  took  one  step 
backward,  as  if  he  were  standing  on  the  top 
of  a  tower  and  all  at  once  saw  the  rampart 
give  wa}^ 

Ezzelin  seized  the  reeling  man  by  the  arm 
with  the  curt  question,  "  To  whom  did  you 
make  your  vows,  monk,  —  to  yourself  or  to 
the  church }  " 

"  To  both,  of  course,"  shrieked  the  old  man 
angrily  ;  "  these  are  cursed  subtleties.  Take 
care,  son,  or  he  will  reduce  us,  Vicedomini, 
to  beggar}^" 

Without  a  trace  of  feelinsr  or  resentment, 
Ezzelin  laid  his  right  hand  on  his  beard  and 
swore  —  "  If  Vicedomini  dies,  the  monk  here 
inherits  his  property,  and  should  the  famuly 
become  extinct  with  him  if  he  love  me  and 
his  native  city,  he  shall  found  a  hospital  of 
such  size  and  grandeur  that  the  hundred 
cities  (he  meant  the  Italian)  will  envy  us. 
Now,  godfather,  having  cleared  myself  from 


j^  The  Mo7ik's  Wedding, 

the  charge  of  rapacity,  may  I  put  to  the 
monk  a  few  questions  ?  —  have  I  your  permis- 
sion ?  " 

The  fury  of  the  old  man  now  rose  to  such 
a  pitch  as  to  bring  on  a  fit  of  convulsions, 
but  even  then  he  did  not  release  the  arm  of 
the  monk. 

Issacher  put  carefully  to  the  pale  lips  a 
spoon  filled  with  some  strong  smelling  es- 
sence. The  sufferer  turned  his  head  away 
with  an  effort.  "  Leave  me  in  peace,"  he 
groaned  ;  "  you  are  the  governor's  physician 
as  well,"  and  closed  his  eyes  again. 

The  Jew  looked  at  the  tyrant  as  if  to  beg 
forgiveness  for  this  suspicion.  "  Will  he  re- 
turn to  life  }  "  asked  Ezzelin.  "  I  think  so," 
replied  the  Jew,  "  but  not  for  long ;  I  fear 
he  will   not  live  to  see  the  sun  go  down." 

The  tyrant  took  advantage  of  the  moment 
to  speak  to  the  monk  who  was  exerting 
himself  to  the  utmost  to  restore  his  father. 

"Answer  me,  Astorre,"  he  began,  while  he 
buried  the  outspread  fingers  of  his  right 
hand,  a  favorite  gesture,  in  his  beard  — 
"  how  much  have  the  three  vows  cost  you 
which  you  took  some  ten  years  ago ;  for  I 


The  Monk^s  Wedding,  jß 

take  It  you  are  now  about  thirty?  The 
monk  bowed  assent,  then  raised  his  frank 
clear  eyes  and  said  without  hesitation  :  "The 
two  first,  poverty  and  obedience,  nothing  —  I 
had  no  desire  for  possessions,  and  it  is  easy 
for  me  to  obey."     He  paused  and  blushed. 

The  tyrant  was  pleased  with  this  simple 
manliness.  "  Did  your  father  compel  or  per- 
suade you  to  choose  this  profession  ?  "  "  No," 
he  replied  ;"for  three  or  four  generations,  as 
the  family  history  records,  the  last  son  of  our 
house  has  been  a  priest  or  monk,  perhaps 
because  we  needed  an  intercessor  in  Heaven, 
—  or  it  may  have  been  considered  one  way  to 
preserve  our  power  on  earth  ;  —  whatever  the 
reason,  it  was  a  time-honored  custom.  I 
knew  my  destiny  from  childhood,  and  it  was 
not  repugnant  to  me.  No  restraint  was  ex- 
ercised over  me." 

"And  how  about  that  third?"  He  meant 
the  third  vow ;  Astorre  understood  him. 

Again  blushing,  but  this  time  faintly,  he 
replied  "  It  was  not  easy  for  me,  still  I  con- 
quered, like  other  monks  who  have  good  ad- 
visers, and  such  I  had  in  St.  Antonius,"  he 
added  reverently. 


j6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

•'  This  meritorious  saint,  as  you  know, 
my  Lords,  lived  for  some  years  in  the  Fran- 
ciscan cloisters  at  Padua,"  explained  Dante. 
"  Why  shouldn't  we  know,"  jokingly  retorted 
one  of  his  hearers ;  "  haven't  we  all  paid  our 
respects  to  the  relic  swimming  about  in  the 
cloister  pond  yonder?  I  mean  the  pike, 
which  once  heard  a  sermon  of  the  saints,  was 
converted,  renounced  animal  food,  kept  hence- 
forth to  the  strait  and  narrow  path,  and  at  an 
advanced  age  remained  a  strict  vegetarian." 
He  choked  down  the  end  of  his  nonsense, 
for  Dante  frowned  upon  him  and  continued. 

"  What  did  he  advise  you  ?  "  asked  Ezzelin. 
"  To  take  up  my  profession  in  a  simple 
straightforward  way,  as  I  would  any  other 
service,  for  instance,  military  service,  which 
also  requires  obedient  muscles,  self-denial, 
and  the  strength  to  endure  hardships  of 
various  kinds,  although  a  true  warrior  does 
even  feel  them  to  be  such ;  to  till  the  earth 
in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  eat  moderately,  fast 
moderately,  confess  neither  maidens  nor 
young  women,  live  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
worship  His  Mother  not  more  passionately 
than  the  breviary  prescribes." 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  J7 

The  tyrant  smiled,  then  extended  his  right 
hand  toward  the  monk  in  encouragement  or 
blessing  and  said,  "  Fortunate  one,  thou  hast 
a  star ;  with  thee,  to-day  follows  naturally  upon 
yesterday,  and  will  unawares  usher  in  the 
morrow.  Thou  art  something,  and  that  not 
insignificant,  for  thou  fulfillest  the  office  of 
charity,  which  I  neglect,  however  well  I  may 
perform  a  different  one.  If  you  should  enter 
the  world,  which  has  its  own  laws,  though  it 
is  too  late  for  you  to  learn  them,  your  clear 
star  would  become  a  mere  fire-rocket,  which 
after  a  few  foolish  leaps,  would  explode,  hiss- 
ing into  darkness,  scoffed  at  by  the  heavenly 
powers.  One  thing  more,  and  this  I  say, 
being  what  I  am,  the  Lord  of  Padua.  Thy 
character  has  elevated  my  people  and  set 
them  an  example  of  self-denial.  The  poorest 
was  comforted  by  remembering  he  had  seen 
thee  sharing  his  scanty  food  and  doing  the 
same  hard  daily  work.  If  you  throw  aside 
the  cowl  as  an  aristocrat,  wed  a  proud  lady, 
and  draw  with  full  hands  from  the  wealth  of 
your  house,  you  will  commit  a  robbery  on  the 
people,  who  had  taken  possession  of  you  as 
one  of  their  own ;  you  will  create  discontent 


j8  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

and  dissatisfaction,  and  it  would  not  surprise 
me  if  a  train  of  evils  should  follow  in  their 
wake.     These  thino's  are  linked  too^ether!" 

"  Padua,  and  its  ruler,  cannot  dispense 
with  thee,  the  eyes  of  the  multitude  are 
drawn  to  thee,  and  thou  hast  more,  or  cer- 
tainly a  nobler,  spirit  than  thy  low-born 
brethren.  If  the  people,  in  mad  frenzy, 
should  threaten  to  murder  this  man,"  and 
he  pointed  to  Issacher,  "  for  instance,  as  they 
did  in  the  time  of  the  last  plague,  because  he 
brought  them  relief,  who  would  defend  him 
against  their  insane  fury  until  I  could  arrive, 
and  command  them  to  halt  ?  " 

"  Issacher,  help  me  to  convince  the  monk," 
and  Ezzelin  turned  to  the  physician  with  a 
cruel  smile,  "  you  see  that  even  for  your  sake 
he  must  not  be  allowed  to  lay  aside  his  cowl." 

"  Prince,  "  whispered  the  Jew,  "  under  thy 
sceptre  this  irrational  scene,  for  which  you 
so  properly  exacted  a  bloody  penalty,  will 
scarcely  be  repeated,  and  therefore  on  my 
account  whose  faith  extols,  as  God's  greatest 
blessing,  the  perpetuity  of  race,  this  illustri- 
ous Lord  (he  already  substituted  this  title 
for  that  of  Reverend)  is  no  longer  to  remain 
unmarried." 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  jg 

Ezzelln  smiled  at  the  subtlety  of  the  Jew. 
"  And  whither  do  your  own  thoughts  tend, 
Monk?"  he  inquired.  "  They  are  unchanged 
and  persistent,  yet,  God  forgive  me,  I  would 
that  my  father  never  woke  again,  that  I 
should  be  forced  to  oppose  him  cruelly.  If 
he  had  but  received  extreme  unction!"  He 
kissed  passionately  the  cheek  of  the  fainting 
man,  who  thereupon  returned  to  conscious- 
ness. 

Heaving  a  deep  sigh,  he  raised  his  weary 
eyelids,  and  from  under  the  gray  bushy 
brows  directed  toward  the  monk  a  supplica- 
ting look.  "How  is  it?"  he  asked,  "to  what 
hast  thou  doomed  me,  dearest  —  to  heaven  or 
to  hell  ?" 

"  Father,"  prayed  Astorre  in  a  tremulous 
voice,"  thy  time  has  come,  only  a  short  hour 
remains,  banish  all  earthly  cares  and  inter- 
ests, think  of  thy  soul."  "  See,  thy  priests  " 
(he  meant  those  of  the  parish  church),  "  are 
gathered  together  waiting  to  perform  the 
last  sacrament." 

It  was  so  !  The  door  of  the  adjacent  room 
had  softly  opened  in  which  the  faint  glimmer 
of  lighted  candles  was  perceptible,  whilst  a_ 


^o  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

choir  was  Intoning  a  prelude,  and  the  gentle 
vibration  of  a  bell  became  audible. 

Now  the  old  man,  who  already  felt  his 
knees  sinking  into  Lethe's  flood,  clung  to 
the  monk,  as  once  St.  Peter  to  the  Saviour 
on  the  Sea  of  Gennesareth.  "  Thou  wilt  do 
it  for  my  sake  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"  If  I  could ;  if  I  dared,"  sighed  the  monk. 
"  By  all  that  is  holy,  my  father,  think  on  eter- 
nity, leave  the  earthly.    Thine  hour  is  come  !  " 

This  veiled  refusal  kindled  the  last  spark 
of  life  in  the  old  man  to  a  blaze.  "  Disobe- 
dient, ungrateful  one,"  he  cried. 

Astorre  beckoned  to  the  priests.  "  By  all 
the  devils,  spare  me  your  kneadings  and 
salvings,"  raved  the  dying  man,  "  I  have 
nothing  to  gain,  I  am  already  like  one  of  the 
damned,  and  must  remain  so  in  the  midst  of 
paradise,  if  my  son  wantonly  repudiates  me, 
and  destroys  my  germ  of  life." 

The  horror-struck  monk,  thrilled  to  the 
soul  by  this  frightful  blasphemy,  pictured 
his  father  doomed  to  eternal  perdition.  (This 
was  his  thought  and  he  was  as  firmly  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  it  as  I  should  have 
been  in  his  place).      He  fell    down  on  his 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ^/ 

knees  before  the  old  man,  and  in  utter  de- 
spair, bursting  into  tears,  said :  "  Father,  I 
beseech  thee,  have  pity  on  thyself,  and  on 
me!" 

"  Let  the  crafty  one  go  his  way,"  whispered 
the  tyrant. 

The  monk  did  not  hear  him.  Again  he 
gave  the  astounded  priests  a  sign  and  the 
litany  for  the  dying  was  about  to  begin. 

At  this  the  old  man  doubled  himself  up 
like  a  refractory  child,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Let  the  sly  fox  go  where  he  must,"  ad- 
monished Ezzelin  in  a  louder  tone. 

"  Father,  Father,"  sobbed  the  monk,  his 
whole  soul  dissolved  in  pity. 

"  Illustrious  Signor  and  Christian  Brother," 
said  the  priest  with  unsteady  voice,  "are  you 
in  the  frame  of  mind  to  meet  your  Creator 
and  Saviour?  "     The  old  man  took  no  notice. 

"  Are  you  firm  as  a  believer  in  the  Holy 
Trinity?  "  answer  me,  Signor,"  said  the  priest, 
and  then  turned  pale  as  a  sheet,  for  "  Cursed 
and  denied  be  it  for  ever  and  ever,"  fell  from 
the  dying  man's  lips.     "  Cursed  and  —  " 

"  No  more,"  cried  the  monk  springing  to 
his  feet.     "  Father,   I  resign  myself  to  thy 


^^2  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

will.  Do  with  me  what  you  choose  if  only 
you  will  not  throw  yourself  into  the  flames 
of  Hell." 

The  old  man  gasped  as  after  some  terrible 
exertion ;  then  gazed  about  him  with  an  air 

^. J.  of  relief,  J_  had  almost  said  of  pleasure.  Grop- 
ing, he  seized  the  blonde  hair  of  Diana,  lifted 
her  up  from  her  knees,  took  her  right  hand, 
which  she  did  not  refuse,  opened  the  cramped 
hand    of    the    monk    and   laid    the    two    to- 

^        gether :  — 

"  Binding,  in  presence  of  the  most  Holy 
Sacrament!  "  he  exclaimed  triumphantly,  and 
blessed  the  pair.  The  monk  did  not  gainsay 
it,  while  Diana  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Now  quick.  Reverend  Fathers,  there  is 
need  of  haste  I  think,  and  I  am  now  in  a 
Christian  frame  of  mind." 

The  monk  and  his  affianced  bride  would 
fain  have  stepped  behind  the  train  of  priests. 
"  Stay,"  muttered  the  dying  man,  "  stay  where 
m}^  comforted  eyes  may  look  upon  you  until 
they  close  in  death."  Astorre  and  Diana 
were  thus  with  clasped  hands  obliged  to  wait 
and  watch  the  expiring  glance  of  the  ob- 
stinate old  man. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ^j 

The  latter  murmured  a  short  confession, 
received  the  last  sacrament  and  breathed  his 
final  breath,  as  they  were  anointing  his  feet, 
while  the  priests  uttered  in  his  already  deaf 
ears  those  sublime  words,  "  Rise,  Christian 
Soul."  The  dead  face  bore  the  unmistake- 
able  expression  of  triuniphant  cunning.  t 

The  tyrant  sat,  whilst  all  around  were 
upon  their  knees,  and  with  calm  attention 
observed  the  performance  of  the  sacred  of- 
fice, much  like  a  savant  studying  on  a  sar- 
cophagus the  representation  of  some  relig- 
ious rites  of  an  ancient  people.  He  now 
approached  the  dead  man  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

He  then  turned  to  Diana.  "Noble  Lady," 
said  he,  "  let  us  go  home,  your  parents,  even 
if  assured  of  your  safety,  will  long  to  see 
you." 

"  Prince,  I  thank  you,  and  will  follow,"  she 
answered,  but  she  did  not  withdraw  her 
hand  from  that  of  the  monk,  whose  eyes 
until  then  she  had  avoided.  Now  she  looked 
her  betrothed  full  in  the  face,  and  said  in 
a  deep,  but  melodious  voice,  whilst  her 
cheeks  glowed :  "  My  Lord  and  Master,  we 


^/  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

\/could  not  let  your  father's  soul  perish  ;  thus 
have  I  become  yours.  Hold  your  faith  to 
me,  better  than  to  the  cloister.  Your  brother 
did  not  love  me  ;  forgive  me  for  saying  it, 
I  speak  the  simple  truth.  You  will  have 
in  me  a  good  and  obedient  wife,  but  I  have 
two  peculiarities,  which  you  must  treat  with 
indulgence.  I  am  hot  with  anger  if  any 
attack  is  made  on  my  honor  or  my  rights, 
and  I  am  most  exacting  in  regard  to  the 
fulfilment  of  a  promise  once  made  Even 
as  a  child  I  w^as  so.  I  have  few  wishes,  and 
desire  nothing  unreasonable,  but  when  a 
thing  has  once  been  shown  and  promised  me, 
I  insist  upon  possessing  it,  and  I  lose  my 
faith,  and  resent  injustice  more  than  other 
women,  if  the  promise  I  have  received  is  not 
faithfully  kept.  But  how  can  I  allow  myself 
to  talk  in  this  way  to  you,  my  Lord,  whom  I 
scarcely  know  ?  I  have  done.  Farewell,  my 
husband,  grant  me  nine  days  to  mourn  your 
brother."  At  this  she  slowly  released  her 
hand  from  his  and  disappeared  with  the 
tyrant. 

Meanwhile,  the  band  of  priests  had  borne 
away  the  corpse  to  place  it  'upon  a  bier  in 
the  palace  chapel,  and  to  bless  it. 


The  Äfonk's  Wedding,  ^5 

Astorre  was  once  more  alone,  in  his  for- 
feited monk's  dress,  which  now  covered  a 
breast  filled  with  repentance.  A  host  of 
servants  who  had  listened,  and  sufficiently 
comprehended  the  strange  proceeding,  ap- 
proached their  new  master  shyly,  and  in 
submissive  attitudes,  being  perplexed  and 
intimidated,  less  by  the  change  of  masters 
than  by  the  supposed  sacrilege  of  the  broken 
vow,  for  the  reading  of  the  papal  letter  had 
not  reached  their  ears.  But  how  could  As- 
torre force  himself  to  grieve  for  the  loss  of 
his  father?  He  had  recovered  the  strength 
of  his  own  will,  and  the  suspicion  had  stolen 
into  his  mind,  nay,  the  maddening  certainty 
had  overwhelmed  him  that  the  dying  man 
had  taken  unfair_  advantage  of  his  pity  and 
deceived  his  simple  faith.  He  discovered  in 
the  despair  of  the  old  man  the  last  resource 
of  cunning,  and  in  his  mad  blasphemies,  a 
crafty  purpose  on  the  threshold  of  death. 
He  next  turned  his  thoughts,  with  unwil- 
lingness, even  aversion,  to  the  wife  who  had 
fallen  to  him.  The  idea  of  loving  her,  not 
from  his  own  heart,  but  as  his  dead  brother's 
proxy,  chimed  in  with  his  perverted  monkish 


^^6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

reasoning,  although  his  healthy  honest  na- 
ture revolted  against  such  a  niggardly  ex- 
pedient. Now  that  he  considered  her  his 
ovv'n,  he  could  not  repress  a  certain  amaze- 
ment at  his  wife's  having  addressed  him  in 
such  concise  terms,  and  at  the  frank,  uncom- 
promising honesty  with  which  she  adjusted 
her  claims.  Truly  a  sturdier  and  more  sub- 
stantial being  than  the  ideal  woman  of  the 
legend  !     He  had  imagined  women  gentler. 

Suddenly  Astorre  was  reminded  of  the 
contradiction  between  his  monastic  dress 
and  all  these  feelins^s  and  reflections.  He 
was  ashamed  of  his  cowl,  and  it  grew  irksome 
to  him.  "  Bring  me  worldly  garments,"  he 
ordered,  and  the  officious  servants  hastened 
to  obey  his  wish.  He  was  soon  dressed  in  a 
suit  which  had  been  his  brother's ;  they  having 
been  about  the  same  height. 

At  this  moment  his  father's  fool,  named 
Gocciola,  threw  himself  at  his  feet,  and 
would  do  him  homage,  not,  however,  like  the 
others,  to  ask  the  continuance  of  his  service, 
but  to  pray  for  dismissal  and  permission  to 
change  his  profession ;  he  said  he  was  weary 
of  the  world,  and  it  would  ill  become  his  gray 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ^/ 

hair  to  go  Into  the  next  hfe  in  cap  and  bells. 
Thus  wailing  and  whining,  he  took  posses- 
sion of  the  monk's  cast-off  garments,  which 
the  servants  had  not  dared  to  touch.  Then 
his  inconstant  brain  turned  a  complete  somer- 
sault, and  he  said  greedily,  "  I  think  I'll  wait 
and  eat  Amarella  once  more  before  I  bid  .-f 
farewell  to  the  world  and  its  delusions.  We 
shall  not  have  to  wait  long  here,  I  think,  for 
a  wedding."  And  he  licked  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  with  his  flabby  tongue.  Then 
bending  one  knee  before  the  Monk,  he  shook  ^ 
his  bells  and  sprang  away,  dragging  rope  and 
cowl  behind  him. 

Amarella,  or  Amare,  Dante  explained,  was  ,. 
the  name  given  by  the  Paduans  to  their 
wedding-cake,  on  account  of  its  flavor  of 
bitter  almonds,  and  also  in  graceful  allusion 
to  the  verb  of  the  first  conjugation.  Here 
he  paused,  and,  shading  brow  and  eyes  with  'v  \^ 
his  hand,  was  evidently  considering  how  to 
go  on  with  the  romance. 

During  the  interim,  the  Majordomo  of  the 
Prince,  an  Alsatian  named  Burcardo,  with 
measured  steps,  ceremonious  bows,  and  pro- 
fuse apologies  for  thus  disturbing  the  enter- 


^8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

tainment,  presented  himself  before  Can- 
o^rande  to  ask  for  commands  about  some  do- 
mestic  matters.  The  Germans  were  in  that 
day  no  rare  apparition  at  the  GhibelUne 
courts  of  Italy  ;  indeed  they  were  sought  and 
preferred  to  the  natives,  because  of  their 
honesty  and  quickness  in  apprehending  cer- 
emonies and  customs. 

When  Dante  raised  his  head  again,  he 
saw  the  Alsatian,  and  heard  the  dire  havoc 
he  was  making  among  the  Italian  consonants, 
which,  while  it  amused  the  courtiers,  offended 
the  sensitive  ear  of  the  poet.  His  eyes 
lingered  with  evident  pleasure  on  the  two 
young  men,  Ascanio  and  the  mail-clad  knight, 
and  at  last,  thoughtfully  on  the  ladies,  the 
princess  Diana,  whose  marble  cheeks  were 
now  suffused  with  a  faint  flush  of  animation, 
and  Antiope,  the  friend  of  Cangrande,  a 
pretty  sprightly  creature.  He  then  con- 
tinued: — 

"  Behind  the  city-castle  of  the  Vicedomini 
there  formerly  spread  (though  to-day  the  il- 
lustrious race  has  so  long  been  extinct,  that 
the  plot  of  ground  has  w^holly  changed  its 
character)  a  district  of  such  extent  as  to  fur- 


The  Monk^s  Wedding.  ^p 

nish  pasturage  for  cattle,  preserves  for  stag 
and  deer,  ponds  full  of  fish,  deep  shady  woods 
and  sunny  vineyards.  On  a  brilliant  morn- 
ing, seven  days  after  the  funeral,  the  monk, 
Astorre,  was  sitting  in  the  dark  shade  of  a 
cedar,  with  his  back  against  the  trunk,  and 
the  points  of  his  shoes  stretching  out  into 
the  burning  sunlight.  (This  title  of  "  Monk  " 
he  retained  among  the  Romans  to  the  end 
of  his  short  pilgrimage  upon  earth.)  He 
was  lying,  rather  than  sitting,  opposite  a 
fountain,  where,  from  the  mouth  of  a  great 
stone  face,  gushed  a  cool  flood.  As  he  was 
dreaming  or  thinking,  I  know  not  which, 
two  young  men,  one  in  armor,  the  other  in 
a  handsome  travelling  costume,  sprang  from 
their  dust-covered  steeds,  and-  with  rapid 
steps  crossed  the  hot,  sunny  square  in  front 
of  the  palace.  Ascanio  and  Germano,  such 
were  the  rider's  names,  were  favorite^  of  the 
Governor,  and  had  been  youthful  companions 
of  the  monk,  with  whom,  in  brotherly  fashion, 
they  had  studied  and  played  up  to  his  fif- 
teenth year,  or  the  beginning  of  his  novitiate. 
Ezzelin  had  sent  them  with  despatches  to  his 
brother-in-law.  Emperor  Frederick.     The  two 


50  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

were  on  their  way  back  to  the  tyrant  bearing 
replies  to  important  questions,  and  added  to 
these,  the  news  of  the  day,  and  a  copy,  made 
in  the  Imperial  Chancery,  of  a  pastoral  letter 
addressed  to  the  Christian  Clergy,  wherein 
the  Holy  Father  accused  the  great-minded 
Emperor,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  of  the 
most  utter  godlessness.  Although  entrusted 
with  this  portentous  document,  as  well  as 
other  weighty  missives,  the  two  could  not 
find  it  in  their  hearts  to  rush  past  the  home 
of  their  old  play-fellow,  which  was  directly 
en  ro2ite  to  the  tyrant's  castle,  without  stop-  ^ 
ping  to  offer  him  a  word  of  sympathy.  At 
the  last  inn  before  reaching  Padua,  where, 
without  leaving  the  stirrup,  they  had  let  the 
horses  drink,  they  had  heard  from  the  gos- 
siping landlord  of  the  great  city  disaster  and 
the  still  greater  city  scandal,  of  the  loss  of 
the  wedding-barque,  and  the  discarded  cowl 
of  the  monk  with  all  the  attendant  circum- 
stances, except  that  of  uniting  the  hands  of 
Diana  and  Astorre,  which  had  not  yet  been 
made  public.  Indissoluble  are  the  bonds 
^hich  chain  us  to  the  companions  of  our 
^  childhood.     Startled  by  the  strange  fate  of 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  5/ 

Astorre,  the  two  could  not  rest  until  they 
had  beheld,  with  their  own  eyes,  a  friend 
thus  restored  to  the  world  and  to  them. 
During  many  years  they  had  seen  the  monk 
only  by  chance  in  the  street,  where  they 
greeted  him  with  a  kindly  but  somewhat 
distant  bow  made  the  deeper  by  a  sincere 
reverence. 

Gocciola,  whom  they  found  in  the  court 
of  the  palace  munching  a  biscuit,  as  he  sat 
swinging  his  legs  over  a  bit  of  wall,  led  them 
into  the  garden.  As  they  strolled  along,  the 
fool  entertained  the  gentlemen  not  with  the 
tragic  fate  of  the  house,  but  with  his  own 
affairs,  which  seemed  to  him  of  more  impor- 
tance. He  said  that  he  was  fervently  striving 
for  a  blessed  end,  and  swallowed  the  rest  of 
the  biscuit  without  chew^ing  it  with  his  loose 
teeth,  so  that  it  all  but  choked  him.  The 
grotesque  faces  he  made  up,  together  with 
his  maudlin  talk  about  living  in  a  cell,  caused 
Ascanio  to  break  into  such  merry  peals  of 
laughter  as  would  have  driven  every  cloud 
out  of  the  sky  if  the  day  had  not  revelled 
for  its  own  delio^ht  in  all  the  crlowinor  colors. 

Ascanio  did    not   hesitate  to  banter  the 


^2  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

"  Little  Drop  "  in  order  the  sooner  to  be  rid 
of  this  annoying  mortal.  "  Poor  fellow,"  he 
began,  "  you  will  not  gain  the  cell,  for,  be- 
tween ourselves,  the  tyrant  has  cast  longing 
eyes  on  you.  Let  me  tell  you ;  he  has  four 
fools,  the  Stoic,  the  Epicurean,  the  Platonic 
and  the  Skeptic,  as  he  calls  them.  These 
four,  when  the  grave  tyrant  desires  to  unbend, 
place  themselves,  at  a  sign  from  him,  in  the 
four  corners  of  a  hall,  on  whose  vaulted 
ceiling  the  planets  and  heavenly  constella- 
tions are  pictured.  My  Uncle  in  everyday 
dress  steps  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  claps 
his  hands,  and  the  philosophers  with  a  skip 
exchange  corners.  Day  before  yesterday, 
the  Stoic  died  weeping  and  moaning,  for 
the  insatiable  creature  had  devoured  many 
pounds  of  vermicelli.  My  Uncle  hinted  to 
me,  cursorily,  that  he  thinks  of  replacing  him 
and  will  entreat  the  Monk,  your  new  master, 
to  grant  him  you,  as  a  contribution  from  his 
inheritance.  Oh,  Gocciola !  so  the  matter 
stands.  Ezzelin  is  going  to  try  to  capture 
you !  Who  knows  whether  he  may  not  be 
right  upon  your  heels  at  this  moment  '^. 
This  was  in  allusion  to  the  ubiquity  of  the 


The  Monk's  Wedding.       *         jj 

tyrant  which  kept  the  Paduans  in  a  constant 
state  of  alarm.  Gocciola  uttered  a  shriek, 
as  if  the  hand  of  the  mighty  one  had  fallen 
upon  his  shoulder,  looked  around  trembling, 
and  though  there  was  nothing  behind  him 
but  his  own  little  shadow,  with  chattering 
teeth  fled  away  to  some  hiding  place. 

"  I  erase  the  fools  of  Ezzelin,"  said  Dante, '^^ 
with  a  gesture  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  held  a 
pen  and  were  writing  a  romance,  instead  of 
telling  it.  "  This  feature  is  untrue,  Ascanio 
lied.  It  is  nowise  conceivable  that  a  nature 
so  serious  and  grand  as  Ezzelin's  could  have 
found  pleasure  in  feeding  fools,  or  listening 
to  their  silly  chatter."  This  was  a  hit  the 
Florentine  directed  at  his  host,  on  whose 
mantle  Gocciola  sat  leering  and  grinning  at 
the  poet. 

Cangrande  did  not  appear  to  heed  it,  but 
secretly  promised  himself  to  pay  Dante  back, 
with  interest,  at  the  first  opportunity.  ^ 

Satisfied,  and  almost  gaily,  Dante  con- 
tinued his  narration. 

"  Soon  the  friends  discovered  the  uncowled 
monk  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  pine." 


ß4  ^'^^  Monk's  Weddmg, 

"  A  cedar,  Dante,"  corrected  the  Princess, 
who  had  listened  with  increasing  attention. 
"A cedar,  sunning  the  tips  of  his  feet.  He 
did  not  observe  his  guests  coming  up  on 
either  side,  so  deeply  was  he  absorbed  in 
his  empty  —  or  was  it  over-burdened.'^  — 
thoughts.  Ascanio  stooped,  picked  a  blade 
of  2:rass  and  tickled  the  monk's  nose  until 
he  sneezed  three  times  lustily.  Astorre 
warmly  grasped  the  hands  of  his  youthful 
playfellows,  and  drew  them  left  and  right 
down  upon  the  grass  beside  him.  "  Now 
what  do  you  say  to  it  all }  "  he  asked  in  a 
tone  rather  timid  than  defiant.  "  Well,  first 
my  hearty  praise  of  your  prior  and  your 
cloister  "  laughed  Ascanio,  "  for  keeping  you 
so  fresh ;  you  look  younger  than  either  of  us. 
To  be  sure,  the  trig-fitting  dress  and  smooth 
chin  may  have  some  share  in  this  rejuvena- 
tion. Do  you  know  that  you  are  a  handsome 
man }  Here,  dropt  under  this  huge  cedar 
you  are  like  the  first  man,  by  God  created 
thirty  years  of  age,  as  the  learned  assert, 
and  I,"  he  went  on  with  an  artless  expression, 
as  he  saw  the  monk  blush  at  his  audacity,  "  I 
am  truly  the  last  to  blame  you  that  you  have 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  55 

freed  yourself  from  the  monk's  hood,  for  to 
preserve  his  race  is  the  instinct  of  every 
Hving  thing." 

"  It  was  not  my  wish,  nor  my  voluntary 
decision,"  the  monk  acknowledged  truthfully. 
"  Reluctantly  I  yielded  to  the  will  of  my 
dying  father." 

"  Really  !"  Ascanio  said,  and  smiled.  "  Do 
not  tell  this,  Astorre,  to  an3^body  but  to  us 
who  love  you ;  to  others  this  lack  of  indepen- 
dence would  seem  ridiculous.  I  pray  you 
take  care,  Astorre,  that  in  developing  the 
man  out  of  the  monk  you  do  not  overstep 
the  boundaries  of  good  taste.  The  difficult 
transition  should  be  made  by  delicate  grada- 
tions. Accept  counsel ;  travel  a  year,  perhaps, 
visit  the  Court  of  the  Emperor ;  messengers 
are  constantly  running  from  thence  to  Padua 
and  back.  Allow  yourself  to  be  sent  by 
Ezzelin  to  Palermo.  You  will  there  become 
acquainted  with  tlie  most  perfect  Knight, 
and  a  man  wholly  free  from  prejudice.  I 
mean  our  Frederick  the  Second;  and  you 
will  there  also  be  brought  to  understand 
women,  and  wean  yourself  from  the  monkish 
habit  of  either  disparaging  them  too  much, 


^6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

or  idolizing  them.  The  character  of  the 
ruler  colors  court  and  city.  Life  here  in 
Padua  under  my  uncle,  the  tyrant,  has  grown 
wild,  extravagant,  arbitrary,  and  gives  you  a 
false  picture  of  the  world.  Palermo,  when 
under  the  most  humane  of  all  rulers,  play 
and  earnest,  duty  and  pleasure,  loyalty  and 
fickleness,  good  faith  and  prudent  mistrust, 
mingle  in  just  proportions,  affords  a  vastly 
truer  picture.  There,  trifle  away  a  twelve- 
month, or  share  In  a  campaign,  without 
exposing  yourself  rashly.  Keep  your  desti- 
nation ever  in  view,  but  just  remind  yourself 
of  the  way  to  manage  horse  and  sabre;  as  a 
boy  you  knew  how  to  do  it  well.  Keep 
your  gay  brown  eyes,  which,  by  the  torch  of 
Aurora,  sparkle  and  glow  since  you  left  the 
cloister,  open  on  all  sides,  and  return  to  us  a 
man  able  to  command  himself  and  others." 

"  He  must  marry  a  Swabian  yonder  at  the 
Emperor's  court,"  added  the  mail-clad  friend 
good-naturedly.  "  They  are  more  trustworthy 
and  honest  than  our  women."  "  Will  you  be 
silent  ?"  admonished  Ascanio,  "  save  me  from 
your  heavy  flaxen  braids."  But  the  monk 
pressed  Germano's  right  hand  which  he  had 
not  let  go. 


Tlie  Monk's  Wedding,  ßy 

"  Frankly,  Germano,  what  do  you  say 
to  all  this?"  "To  what,"  said  Germano 
brusquely.     "  Why,  to  my  new  position  ?  " 

"  Astorre  my  friend,"  answered  the  mous- 
tached  youth,  somewhat  embarrassed,  "  when 
a  thing  is  done,  one  no  longer  asks  for  advice, 
but  simply  defends  the  act ;  if  you  must  have 
my  opinion,  however,  see  here,  Astorre,  vio- 
lated faith,  broken  vows,  desertion  of  one's 
colors  etc.,  to  these  things  in  Germany  we 
give  harsh  names.  Of  course,  with  3'ou  it 
was  something  quite  different,  not  to  be 
compared  —  then  your  dying  father  !  As- 
torre, my  friend,  you  have  acted  well,  only 
the  contrary  would  have  been  better  still. 
This  is  my  opinion,"  he  concluded  cor- 
dially. 

"  Then  if  you  had  been  here,  you  would 
have  refused  me  the  hand  of  your  sister, 
Germano  ? " 

Germano  looked  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  at  his  feet.  "  The  hand  of  my  sister 
Diana,  who  is  now  in  mourning  for  your 
brother }  "  "  The  same  —  she  is  my  be- 
trothed." "  Ah  !  glorious,"  cried  the  worldly- 
wise    Ascanio,   and  "  Delightful,"  responded 


^8  The  Mo7ik's  Wedding, 

Germano,  "  let  me  embrace  thee  brother, 
brother-in-law,"  for  the  soldier,  in  spite  of  his 
abruptness,  had  good  manners.  But  he 
suppressed  a  sigh.  Heartily  as  he  esteemed 
his  austere  sister,^  he  would  have  selected  a 
wholly  different  woman  for  the  monk  sitting 
beside  him. 

So  he  twisted  his  moustache,  and  Ascanio 
hastened  to  give  the  conversation  a  different 
turn.  "  Astorre,"  said  he,  pleasantly,  "  we 
must  begin  to  get  acquainted  with  each 
other  anew ;  no  less  than  fifteen  contempla- 
tive years  in  a  cloister  lie  between  our 
childhood  and  to-day.  Not  that,  in  the 
meantime,  we  have  changed  our  natures,  for 
who  does  that  ?  but  we  have  developed ;  Ger- 
mano, for  instance,  has  gained  fame  and 
glory  on  the  battle-field  as  a  warrior,  yet  we 
have  to  accuse  him  of  having  become  half- 
German.  He,"  and  Ascanio  doubled  up  his 
arm  as  if  pouring  the  contents  of  a  whole 
beaker  down  his  throat,  "  afterward  grows 
melancholy,  or  quarrelsome.  Then  he  de- 
spises our  sweet  Italian  and  says  boastfully 
'  I  shall  speak  German  with  you,'  and  growls 
out  the  bearish  sounds  of  a  savage  tongue. 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  5p 

His  servants  turn  pale,  his  creditors  fly,  and 
our  Paduan  women  turn  their  stately  backs 
upon  him.  This  is  perhaps  why  he  has 
remained  a  maiden  knight  like  yourself 
Astorre,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  confidingly 
on  the  monk's  shoulder. 

Germano  laughed  heartily  and  answered, 
pointing  to  Ascanio.  "  And  he  has  found 
his  vocation,  which  is  to  be  the  perfect 
courtier. " 

"  Here  you  are  mistaken,  Germano,"  re- 
plied Ezzelin's  favorite,  "  my  aim  has  only 
been  to  enjoy  life,  to  be  easy  and  gay."  As 
proof  of  this,  he  hailed  the  child  of  the  gar- 
dener, who  was  stealing  by  in  the  distance, 
looking  askance  at  her  new  master,  the  monk, 
and  bade  her  come  nearer.  The  pretty 
little  thinsf  bore  on  her  lauo:hino^  head  a 
basket  heaped  up  with  figs  and  grapes,  and 
looked  much  more  roguish  than  shy  or 
bashful.  Ascanio  sprang  up,  threw  his  left 
arm  round  the  maiden's  slender  waist,  and 
with  his  right  pulled  a  bunch  of  grapes  out 
of  her  basket,  trying  at  the  same  time  to 
kiss  her  full  rosy  lips.  The  coy  maiden 
blushed,  but  kept  quite  still  for  fear  of  spill- 


6o  The  Mojik's  Weddmg, 

ing  her  fruit.  The  monk,  however,  turned 
from  the  gay  courtier  with  displeasure,  and 
the  little  girl,  frightened  at  his  gesture,  ran 
off  as  fast  as  she  could,  strewing  the  path 
behind  her  flying  feet  with  the  fruit.  As- 
canio,  holding  his  own  bunch  of  grapes  in 
his  hand,  stooped  and  picked  up  two  others, 
one  of  which  he  offered  Germano,  who 
flung  it  contemptuously  into  the  grass.  The 
good-natured  fellow  passed  the  other  over 
to  the  rnonk,  who  at  first  allowed  it  to  lie 
untouched,  but  after  a  while  thoughtlessly 
tasted  one  grape,  and  soon  a  second  and  a 
third. 

"A  courtier"  continued  Ascanio,  as, 
amused  at  the  prudery  of  the  thirty-years 
old  monk,  he  threw  himself  down  again  be- 
side him  on  the  grass,  "  don't  you  believe  it 
Astorre  !  believe  exactly  the  contrary.  I  am 
the  only  one  who,  quietly  and  in  plain  words, 
can  persuade  my  uncle  not  to  become  un- 
merciful, and,  while  a  ruler,  to  remain  a  man  ! 

"  He  is  only  just  and  true  to  himself," 
added  Germano. 

"  Oh,  his  justice,  and  the  logic  of  his 
deeds  ! "  said  Ascanio  sadly.    "  Padua  is  a  feoff 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  6i 

of  the  Empire ;  Ezzelln  is  governor.  Who- 
ever is  dissatisfied  with  him  rebels  against 
the  Empire ;  and  rebels,  traitors  must  be —  " 
he  could  not  bring  his  lips  to  utter  it  — 
"  horrible  !  "  he  murmured.  "  And  yet,  to 
speak  out  frankly,  why  can't  we  Italians 
manage  our  own  lives  under  this  blue  sky  of 
ours?  Why,  forever,  this  misty  phantom  of 
the  Empire  stifling  our  breath  '^.  I  speak 
not  for  myself;  my  fate  is  bound  up  with 
that  of  my  uncle.  If  the  Emperor  dies  — 
whom  God  preserve!  —  all  Italy,  with  cursing 
and  swearing,  will  overthrow  the  tyrant 
Ezzelin  and  will  strangle  the  nephew  along 
with  him."  Ascanio  gazed  at  the  luxurious 
earth,  the  radiant  heavens,  and  uttered  a 
sigh. 

"  Both  of  us,"  added  Germano  coolly,  "  but 
not  yet  awhile;  the  governor,  according  to 
prophecy,  is  to  maintain  his  power  firmly 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  The  learned  Guido 
Bonatti  and  Paul  of  Bagdad,  who  might 
sweep  the  dust  from  the  streets  with  his 
long  beard,  although  usually  in  passionate 
contradiction  to  one  another,  have  with 
accord    unriddled   for   him    a    new   and  cu- 


62  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

rious  constellation  in  the  following  manner. 
Sooner,  or  later,  a  son  of  the  peninsula  is  to 
win  undivided  power  over  it,  with  the  help 
of  a  German  Emperor,  who  for  his  part,  is, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains  to  unite 
all  the  Germans  under  the  sway  of  one  solid 
Imperial  Crown.  Is  Frederic  this  Emperor? 
Is  this  king  Ezzelin  ?  God  alone  can  tell. 
Who  knows  the  time  and  the  hour?  but  the 
governor  has  staked  our  heads  and  his  re- 
nown upon  \V,y 

"  A  tissue  of  rationalism  and  blind  delu- 
sion," said  Ascanio,  annoyed,  whilst  the 
monk  heard,  with  amazement,  of  the  might 
of  the  stars,  the  unbridled  ambition  of  the 
ruler,  and  the  all-engrossing  rush  and  whirl 
of  worldly  life. 

The  spectre  of  the  cruelty  of  Ezzelin, 
whom,  in  his  innocence,  he  had  looked  upon 
as  incorporated  justice,  began  also  to  alarm 
him. 

Ascanio  responded  to  his  doubts  and  fears 
by  ejaculating  with  emphasis,  "  That  dark- 
browed  Guido  and  the  bearded  heathen,  may 
they  both  find  a  miserable  end  !  They  mis- 
lead   my   uncle,   catering   to    his    lusts    and 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  6j 

humors,  whilst  they  persuade  him  that  he  is 
only  doing  what  is  necessary.  Have  you 
ever  observed  him,  Germano?  how  at  his 
frugal  meal  he  only  colors  the  water  in  his 
transparent  crystal  cup  with  three  or  four 
drops  of  blood-red  Sicilian  ?  how  attentively 
his  eyes  follow  this  blood  as  it  slowly  clouds 
and  permeates  the  pure  stream?  or  how  he 
loves  to  close  the  lids  of  the  dead,  so  that  it 
has  become  a  courtesy  to  invite  the  governor 
to  a  death-bed,  as  to  a  feast,  and  to  commit 
to  him  this  last  sad  duty  ?  Ezzelin,  my 
Prince,  do  not,  I  pray  thee  become  cruel ! " 
exclaimed  the  youth,  overcome  by  his 
feelings 

"  No,  I  will  not,  my  nephew,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him.  It  was  Ezzelin,  who  had  ap- 
proached unseen,  and  though  no  listener, 
had  heard  the  last  bitter  supplication. 

The  three  young  men  rose  quickly  and 
greeted  the  ruler,  who  accepted  a  seat  beside 
them  on  the  bank.  His  face  was  calm  as 
the  mask  at  the  fountain. 

"  You,  niy  messengers,"  he  said,  addressing 
Ascanio  and  Germano,"how  came  it  that 
you  sought  out  this  man  (he  nodded  lightly 
to  the  monk)  before  me  ?  " 


6^  The  Mo7ik's  Wedding, 

"He  was  our  playfellow  and  he  has  met 
with  strange  vicissitudes  of  late,"  said  his 
nephew  by  way  of  excuse,  and  Ezzelin  let  it 
pass.  He  took  the  letters  which  Ascanio 
handed  to  him  on  bended  knee  and,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Papal  Bull,  crowded  them 
all  into  the  bosom  of  his  dress.  "  See  here," 
said  he,  "  the  latest ;  read  it  aloud,  Ascanio, 
your  eyes  are  younger  than  mine." 

Ascanio  read  the  Apostolic  letter,  whilst 
Ezzelin,  burying  his  right  hand  in  his  beard) 
listened  with  demoniac  satisfaction. 

The  triple-crowned  writer  began  by  giving 
the  enlightened  Emperor  the  name  of  "  Apoc- 
alyptic Monster."  "  This  is  nothing  new," 
said  the  tyrant,  "  I,  too,  was  called  by  all 
sorts  of  extravagant  names  until  I  admon- 
ished the  Pontifex  that  whoever  had  anything 
to  say  to  Ezzelin  must  henceforth  upbraid 
him  in  classic  language.  What  name  does 
he  give  me  this  time.f^  I  am  curious  to 
know;  hunt  up  the  passage,  Ascanio,  in 
which  he  reproaches  my  father-in-law  for 
his  bad  associate.  Give  it  to  me ! "  He 
seized  the  letter  and  soon  found  the  place. 
The  Pope  accused  the   Emperor  of   loving 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  6ß 

the  husband  of  his  daughter,  Ezzelin  da  Ro- 
mano, the  greatest  criminal  on  the  inhabited 
globe. 

"  Correct,"  assented  Ezzelin,  and  gave 
Ascanio  back  the  letter.  "  Now  read  to  me 
the  sins  of  the  Emperor,  nephew,"  he  said 
smilinor. 

Ascanio  read  on :  "  Frederic  has  said,  three 
imposters  —  Moses,  Mahomet,  and  " — he  hes- 
itated— "had  deceived  the  world."  "  Super- 
ficial ! "  exclaimed  Ezzelin  with  a  frown, 
"  they  had  their  stars,  but  whether  he  said  it 
or  not,  the  remark  engraves  itself,  and  out- 
weighs for  him  who  wears  the  tiara,  an  army 
and  a  fleet ;  —  proceed !  " 

Now  followed  a  curious  anecdote.  "  Fred- 
eric, riding  through  a  cornfield,  had  joked 
with  his  attendants,  and  in  blasphemous 
allusion  to  the  sacred  bread,  recited  these 
lines :  — 

As  many  Gods  there  are  as  ears  of  grain, 
They  quickly  shoot  aloft  through  sun  and  rain, 
And  wave  their  golden  heads  on  hill  and  plain." 

Ezzzelin  thought  a  moment.  "  Curious  !  " 
he  whispered.  "  My  memory  has  preserved 
this  little  verse  somewhere.     It  is  absolutely 


66  The  Mo7tk's  Weddi7tz> 


at 


authentic.  The  Emperor  recited  it  to  me, 
with  a  merry  laugh,  as  we  were  riding  to- 
gether in  sight  of  the  temple  ruins  of  Enna, 
throusfh  those  exuberant  cornfields  with 
which  the  goddess  Ceres  has  blessed  Sicilian 
soil.  I  remember  it  with  the  same  clearness 
that  shone  over  the  Isle  on  that  summer  day. 
I  am  not  the  one,  however,  who  repeated 
this  conceit  to  the  Pontifex ;  I  am  too  grave 
a  man  to  do  that.  Who  did  it  ?  I  appeal  to 
you.  There  were  three  of  us  and  the  third 
—  of  this,  too,  I  am  as  certain  as  of  the 
luminous  sun  above  us  (a  beam  fell  straight 
into  the  arbor)  was  Peter  de  Vinca,  —  the 
inseparable  companion  of  the  Emperor. 
May  the  pious  Chancellor  have  feared  for 
his  soul  and  relieved  his  conscience  by  a 
letter  to  Rome  ?  Does  a  Saracen  ride  forth 
to-day  ?  Yes  ?  Quick,  Ascanio,  I  will  dic- 
tate a  few  lines." 

Ascanio  drew  out  a  little  tablet  and 
pencil,  and,  dropping  upon  his  right  knee, 
used  the  left  as  a  desk.  "  Illustrious  Prince 
and  beloved  father-in-law,  one  hurried  word. 
The  little  verse  in  the  Bull  (you  have  far  too 
much  mind    to  repeat   yourself)  was   heard 


The  Mo7ik's  Wedding.  6j 

only  by  four  ears,  mine  and  those  of  your 
Peter,  a  year  ago,  in  the  corniields  of  Enna, 
at  the  time  you  called  me  to  your  court,  and 
I  rode  with  you  over  the  island.  Have  the 
winds  of  heaven  proved  treacherous  and 
borne  these  lines  to  the  Vicar  of  St.  Peter? 
If  you  love  me  and  yourself,  Prhice,  rack 
your  Chancellor's  brains  for  an  answer." 

"  Bloody  suggestion !  I  will  not  wrue  it, 
my  hand  trembles,"  cried  Ascanio,  turning 
jDale,  and  he  threw  his  pencil  away. 

"  Official  duty,"  Germano  said  drily,  picked 
up  the  pencil  and  finished  the  letter  which 
he  thrust  under  his  helmet.  "It  will  go  off 
to-day.  As  regards  my  simple  self  I  never 
liked  this  Capuan,  he  has  a  veiled  look." 

The  monk  Astorre  shivered  in  spite  of 
the  mid-day  sun.  After  his  peaceful  cloister 
life  the  suspicion  and  treachery  of  the  world 
seemed  to  him  like  the  slippery  coils  of  a 
viper  he  was  grasping  in  his  hands.  A  stern 
rebuke  from  Ezzelin,  as  he  rose  from  his 
stone  seat  banished  his  reverie. 

"  Say,  monk,  why  do  you  bury  yourself  in 
your  castle.  You  have  not  left  it  since  you 
donned  the  world's  garb.     You  shrink  from 


68  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

public  opinion  ?  Face  it  boldly,  it  will  yield, 
but  make  a  single  attempt  at  flight  and  it 
will  hang  upon  your  heels.  Have  you  visi- 
ted Diana  ?  The  week  of  mourning  is  past. 
I  advise  you  to  invite  your  kinsfolk  and 
marry  Diana  to-day." 

''  Then  be  off  with  you  to  your  remotest 
castle,"  concluded  Ascanio. 

"  I  do  not  counsel  this,"  said  the  tyrant, 
"no  fear,  no  flight.  To-day  be  married  and 
to-morrow  give  the  wedding  feast  with  masks. 
Valeter  He  departed,  motioning  Germane 
to  follow  him." 

"  May  I  interrupt,"  asked  Cangrande,  who 
had  courteously  waited  until  a  pause  came 
in  the  narrative. 

"  You  are  Lord  and  Master "  peevishly 
replied  the  Florentine. 

"Do  you  really  impute  to  our  immortal 
Emperor  that  word  '  impostor '  as  applied  to 
three  great  souls  1  " 

"  Non  ligneC 

"  I  mean  in  your  secret  soul.^^ " 

With  a  motion  of  the  head  Dante  nega- 
tived the  question. 

"  And    yet  you  have  condemned   him  as 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  6g 

being  one  of  the  ungodly,  to  the  sixth  circle 
in  your  hell.  How  could  you  do  this  ?  jus- 
tify yourself." 

'•  Illustrissimo,"  replied  the  Florentine, 
"  the  Commedia  expresses  the  judgment  and 
sentence  of  this  age,  Vv^hich,  whether  justly 
or  unjustly,  reads  the  most  frightful  blasphe- 
mies on  that  sublime  brow.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  oppose  the  opinion  of  the  pious,  perhaps, 
however,  the  Future  will  judge  him  quite 
differently." 

-  "  My  Dante,"  said  Cangrande,  a  second 
time,  "  dost  thou  believe  Petrus  de  Vinca  in- 
nocent of  this  crime  against  the  Emperor  ?  " 

"'  Non  ligiietr 

"  I  mean  in  your  inmost  soul  1  " 

Dante  again  shook  his  head. 

"Yet  you  allow  the  traitor  to  affirm  his 
innocence  in  your  Commedia." 

"  Prince,  have  I  any  right,  in  lack  of  actual 
proof,  to  accuse  one  more  son  of  this  Italian 
peninsula  where  we  know  of  so  much 
double-dealing  and  knavery?  " 

"  Dante,  noble  poet,  you  do  not  believe  in 
the  guilt  and  you  condemn ;  you  do  believe 
in  the  guilt  and  you  absolve."     He  then  in 


'JO  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

playful  fashion  attempted  to  go  on  himself 
,  with  the  story.     "  The  monk  and  Ascanio  left 
the  garden  and  entered  the  Hall." 

But  Dante  caught  the  broken  thread  — 
saying,  "  Not  so  —  they  mounted  to  a  small 
room  in  the  tower ;  the  same  which  Astorre 
had  occupied,  when  a  curly-haired  boy,  for 
he  could  not  at  once  accustom  himself  to  the 
large  and  magnificent  rooms,  now  his  own, 
nor  had  he  as  yet  touched  any  portion  of  the 
golden  hoard  bequeathed  to  him.  At  a  com- 
manding gesture  from  Ascanio  the  stiff  and 
surly  looking  Major-domo  Burcardo,  followed 
the  two  friends." 

Cangrande's  major-domo,  who  had  returned 
to  the  hall  in  order  to  listen  to  the  story, 
now  found  himself  so  faithfully  mirrored  in 
it,  that  he  deemed  this  misuse  of  his  stately 
person  most  unseemly,  in  fact,  presumptions, 
from  the  mouth  of  a  stranger,  to  whom  he  had 
given  the  simplest  room  imaginable  in  the 
palace.  What  the  others  enjoyed  as  a  joke 
he  resented  as  an  insult  with  frowning  brows 
and  angry  glance. 

The  Florentine  seemed  to  relish  his  indig- 
i  nation  and  went  on  with  his  tale. 


The  Monk's  Weddiiig,  yi 

"Worthy  Sir,"  Ascanio  addressed  the  Major- 
domo  (did  I  say  he  was  by  birth  an  Alsatian  ?) 
"  how  does  one  get  married  in  Padua  ?  As- 
torre  and  I  find  ourselves  inexperienced  in 
this  science." 

The  master  of  ceremonies  struck  an  atti- 
tude and  gazed  fixedly  at  his  master  without 
deigning  a  look  at  Ascanio,  who  according 
to  his  notion,  had  no  right  to  demand  any- 
thing of  him. 

"  Destiiigeiidum  est "  said  he  solemnly ; 
"there  are  three  distinct  ceremonies  to  be 
observed ;  the  wooing,  the  espousals,  and  the 
wedding." 

"  Where  does  all  this  stand  written  down }  " 
enquired  Ascanio  laughing. 

''Ecce!''  replied  the  Majordomo  as  he 
unfolded  before  them  a  big  book  which  he 
always  carried  about  with  him.  "  Here ! " 
and  he  pointed  with  the  first  finger  of  his 
left  hand  to  the  title.  "  The  ceremonies  of 
Padua,  collected  after  the  most  careful  re- 
searches for  the  pious  use  and  benefit  of  all 
respectable  and  honorable  people  by  Messer 
Godoscalco  Burcardo."  He  turned  over  the 
leaves  and  read.     "  Section  ist.  The  Wooino:. 


12  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

Paragraph  ist.  The  earnest  wooer  brings 
with  him  a  friend  of  Hke  position  as  legal 
witness,  and  — "  "  By  the  superabundant 
merits  of  my  patron  saint,  spare  us  the  ante 
and  post,  the  wooing  and  wedding.  Serve 
up  your  middle  course.  How  are  Espousals 
conducted  in  Padua  ?  " 

"  In  Batooa  "  crowed  the  irritated  Alsatian, 
whose  barbarous  pronunciation  was  exagger- 
ated by  his  excitement,  "for  patrician  sposa- 
lizio  the  twelve  noble  families  must  be  invited" 
— he  counted  them  over  from  memory  —  "  ten 
days  beforehand,  no  earlier,  no  later,  by  the 
Majordomo  of  the  Bridegroom  attended  by 
six  servants.  Before  this  assembly  of  nobles 
the  rings  are  exchanged.  The  guests  drink 
Cybrian  and  eat  Am.arella." 

' "  Heaven  preserve  our  teeth,"  laughed 
Ascanio,  and  snatching  the  book  he  read 
through  the  names  of  the  families,  six  of 
which  had  been  erased  with  broad  strokes. 
They  had  probably  been  involved  in  some 
conspiracy  against  the  tyrant  and  had  thus 
perished. 

"  Now  listen,  old    man,"   commanded   As- 
canio, acting  for  the  monk,   who   had  sunk 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  yj 

into  a  chair,  and,  lost  in  thought,  surrendered 
himself  to  his  friendly  guardian.  "  Make 
your  rounds  with  the  other  six  good-for- 
nothings '  at  once,  this  very  hour,  without 
delay,  do  you  understand  ?  and  give  the 
invitations  for  this  evening  at  vesper  time." 

"  Ten  days  beforehand,"  repeated  Messer 
Burcardo,  majestically,  as  if  proclaiming  an 
Imperial  law. 

"  To-day,  and  for  to-day,  obstinate  fellow." 
"  Impossible,"  said  the  Majordomo  quietly, 
"  would  you  change  the  course  of  the  planets 
and  the  seasons  }  " 

"  You  rebel !  do  you  want  your  throat  or- 
namented with  a  rope,  old  man  1 "  said 
Ascanio  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

This  suiificed.  Burcardo  understood  Ez- 
zelin  had  commanded,  and  the  stiff-necked 
pedant  yielded  without  grumbling;  such  an 
iron  rod  did  the  tyrant  hold  over  his  people. 

"  But  you  are  not  to  invite  the  two  ladies 
Canossa;  Signora  Olympia,  and  Signorina 
Antiope." 

"  Why  not  these  ?  "  and  the  monk  suddenly 
sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  touched  by  a  magic 
wand.     The  empty  air  took  form  and  color 


7^  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

and  a  picture  rose  before  his  fantasy  the 
bare  outlines  of  which  captivated  his  whole 
soul. 

"  Because  the  Countess  Olympia  is  a 
fool,  Astorre.  Do  you  not  know  the  poor 
woman's  history  ?  Ah !  you  were  at  that 
time  in  swathing  bands,  or,  to  speak  more 
properly,  in  the  cowl.  It  was  three  years 
ago  when  the  leaves  were  sere  and  yellow." 

*'  No,  'twas  in  the  summer,  Ascanio  "  said 
the  monk,  "the  anniversary  must  be  fast 
approaching." 

"You  are  rio-ht!  Do  von  then  know  the 
story }  But  how  should  you  ?  Count  Ca- 
nossa  was  suspected  of  having  secret  dealings 
with  the  legate,  was  watched,  seized  and  con- 
demned. The  Countess  threw  herself  at  the 
feet  of  my  uncle,  but  he  wrapped  himself  in 
unapproachable  silence ;  she  then  allowed 
herself  to  be  basely  deceived  by  one  of  the 
chamberlains  who,  for  the  sake  of  the  money 
he  could  make  out  of  her,  promised  that  the 
Count  should  receive  his  pardon  before  the 
block.  This  was  not  fulfilled,  and  when 
they  brought  to  her  the  Count,  beheaded, 
maddened  by  the  sudden  change  from  hope 


The  Monk's  Weddhig,  75 

to  despair,  she  flung  herself  out  of  the  win- 
dow, but  marvellous  to  relate,  apparently 
suffered  no  injury  except  the  spraining  of 
her  foot.  From  that  day  to  this,  however, 
her  mind  has  been  deranged.;  If  our  natural 
moods  imperceptibly  resolve  themselves  one 
into  another,  as  the  light  of  day  gradually 
fades  and  is  lost  in  the  darkness  of  nig^ht, 
hers,  on  the  contrary,  pass  abruptly  from 
bright  to  dark,  twelve  times  in  twelve  hours. 
A  prey  to  the  bitterest  unrest  this  miserable 
woman  hurries  from  her  deserted  city-palace 
to  her  country  house,  and  from  there  back 
again  to  the  city  in  a  state  of  constant  be- 
wilderment. To-day  she  threatens  to  marry 
her  daughter  to  the  son  of  a  farmer,  because 
only  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life  security 
and  peace  is  to  be  found  ;  to-morrow  the 
most  aristocratic  lover,  (who,  to  be  sure, 
through  fear  of  such  a  mother  is  not  likely 
to  present  himself,)  is  considered  scarcely 
grand  enough." 

If  Ascanio,  in  the  midst  of  his  talk,  had 
cast  one  hasty  glance  at  Astorre  he  w^ould 
have  paused  in  amazement,  for  the  monk's 
face  was  positively  transfigured  with  sym- 
pathy and  pity. 


y6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

But  he  went  on  heedless.  "  When  the 
tyrant  at  the  chase  rides  past  Olympia's 
house,  she  rushes  to  the  window  and  expects 
to  see  him  dismount  at  her  threshold,  and, 
after  this  long  and  sufficient  purification  by 
suffering,  that  he  will  graciously  and  kindly 
conduct  her  back  to  court ;  a  thing  he  really 
has    not   the   faintest   idea   of    ever   doino-. 

o 

Another  day,  or  perhaps,  the  very  same  day, 
she  imagines  herself  banished  and  perse- 
cuted by  Ezzelin,  who  simply  does  not 
trouble  himself  about  her. 

"  She  believes  herself  impoverished,  and 
her  estates,  w^iich  he  has  never  meddled 
with,  confiscated.  Thus,  she  burns  and 
freezes,  flying  from  one  extreme  to  another, 
is  not  only  distracted  herself,  but  distracts 
whoever  she  draws  into  the  whirlpool  of  her 
ideas,  and  is  the  cause  of  mischief,  where  the 
people  believe  in  her,  since  being  only  half 
a  fool,  she  says  many  caustic  and  witty 
thino^s.  To  brins:  her  amonor  sensible 
people,  or  to  a  festival,  is  not  to  be  thought 
of.  It  is  a  miracle  that  her  child  Antiope, 
whom  she  idolizes,  and  whose  marriage  is 
the  aim  of  all  her  fancies,  has  been  able  to 


The  Monk's  Weddmg,  77 

retain  her  reason  amid  such  bewildering  cir- 
cumstances, but  the  girl  is  in  the  bloom  and 
strength  of  youth,  is  pretty  enough,  and  has 
a  sweet  nature."  So  Ascanio  rambled  on 
with  his  story. 

Astorre  was  lost  in  dreams  !  I  say  this 
for  what  is  the  past  but  a  dream  .?  All  the 
monk  had  experienced  three  years  ago  was 
before  his  eyes.  He  saw  a  block,  the  execu- 
tioner beside  it,  and  he  himself,  as  substitute 
for  a  brother  who  was  ill,  waiting  to  admin- 
ister the  last  pious  sacrament  and  give  spiri- 
tual consolation  to  some  poor  sinner.  The 
prisoner,  Count  Canossa,  at  last  appeared  in 
chains,  but  at  the  same  time  seeming  far 
from  prepared  to  submit  to  his  fate ;  either 
he  fancied  his  pardon  was  at  hand,  now  that 
he  stood  before  the  block,  or  he  loved  life 
and  the  sun,  and  abhorred  the  thought  of 
darkness  and  the  o-rave.  He  treated  the 
monk  rudely  and  refused  to  listen  to  his 
prayers.  A  horrible  struggle  was  impending 
if  he  continued  to  resist,  for  he  held  his  child 
by  the  hand,  who,  unperceived  by  the 
guards,  had  sprung  to  his  side,  and  now 
clung  to  him,  fastening  her  expressive  eyes, 


'j8  The  Month's  Wedding. 

full  of  supplication,  on  the  face  of  the  monk. 
The  father  drew  the  child  close  to  his  breast, 
as  if  with  this  fresh  young  life  to  protect 
himself  from  destruction,  but  was  forced 
down  by  the  executioner  and  his  head 
pressed  upon  the  block. 

Then  the  child  laid  her  little  head  beside 
her  father's.  Did  she  hope  to  awaken  the 
sympathy  of  the  executioner  ?  Did  she  hope 
to  encourage  her  father  to  endure  the  un- 
avoidable? Was  she  trying  to  whisper  the 
name  of  a  Saint  in  the  ear  of  the  unrecon- 
ciled man  ?  Was  she  in  her  overflowing: 
child-like  love,  without  thought  or  considera- 
tion, doing  an  unheard-of  thing  ?  Would 
she  simply  die  with  him  ? 

The  vision  grew  so  clear  to  the  mental  eye 
of  Astorreas  to  bring  palpably  before  him, 
in  colors  startlingly  life-like,  the  two  necks 
lying  side  by  side.  The  Count's  brown  and 
sunburnt.  The  child's,  white  as  snow,  half- 
hidden  in  her  golden  locks.  The  little  neck 
was  slender  and  exquisitely  formed.  Astorre 
shuddered,  lest  the  falling  axe,  should  mis- 
take its  victim,  and  was  stirred  to  his  in- 
most soul,  just  as  he  had  been   two  years 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  'jg 

before,  when  the  frightful  scene  actually 
occurred,  although  he  did  not  wholly  lose 
consciousness  as  at  the  time  it  happened ; 
then  he  recovered  his  senses  only  after  all 
was  over. 

"  Has  my  master  any  commands  to  give !  " 
and  the  droning  voice  of  the  Majordomo 
broke  in  upon  his  reverie  —  for  this  worthy 
did  not  at  all  relish  being  under  Ascanio  s 
orders. 

"  Burcardo,"  replied  Astorre,  in  a  gentle 
voice  — "  do  not  forget  to  invite  the  two 
ladies  Canossa  —  mother  and  daughter.  It 
must  not  be  said  that  the  monk  iTOores 
those  who  are  shunned  and  neglected  by  the 
world.  I  recoo:nise  the  riorht  of  the  unfortu- 
nate  woman  (here  the  Majordomo  assented 
with  an  easy  nod)  to  be  invited  and  received 
by  me.  In  her  condition  it  might  mortify 
her  deeply  to  be  thus  overlooked." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  leave  her  out "  cried 
Ascanio,  "your  betrothal  is  even  now,^a  wild 
affair  enough,  and  it  is  just  such  mad-cap 
proceedings  that  excite  half-crazy  people. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  she  will,  as  is  her  wont, 
do  something  incredible,  fling  some  unheard- 


8o  The  Mo7ik's  Wedding, 

of  remark  into  the  midst  of  the  festivities, 
which  already  interest  the  gossiping  Pad- 
uans  sufficiently." 

But  Messer  Burcardo,  who  believed  in  the 
propriety  of  inviting  the  Canossa,  in  the 
Assembly  of  the  twelve,  whether  she  was  in 
her  senses  or  not,  and  also  that  his  obedience 
was  due  to  the  Vicedomini  and  nobody  else, 
bowed  low  before  the  monk  and  said  as  he 
withdrew:  "Your  Lordship  alone  is  to  be 
obeyed." 

"  Oh,  Monk  !  Monk  !  "  exclaimed  Ascanio, 
"  to  think  of  practising  divine  mercy  in  a 
world  where  common  kindness  can  scarcely 
be  exercised  with  impunity  ! " 

"  Such  is  human  nature,"  interposed  Dante. 
"A  prophetic  light  sometimes  reveals  the 
brink  of  an  abyss,  but  our  imagined  clever- 
ness steps  in  and  with  smiles  and  sophistries 
persuades  us  there  is  no  danger." 

To  allay  his  fears  the  light-hearted  fellow 
reasoned  with  himself  in  this  wise.  "  What 
in  the  world  is  this  foolish  woman  to  the 
monk,  in  whose  life  she  does  not  play  the 
slightest  part  1  and  after  all  if  she  gives  us 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  8i 

something  to  laugh  at,  a  spice  is  added  to 
the  Amerella ! "  He  had  not  the  faintest 
suspicion  what  was  passing  in  the  soul  of 
Astorre,  and  the  monk  would  never  have 
committed  any  part  of  his  tender  secret  to 
this  frivolous  worldling. 

Therefore  Ascanio  let  well  enough  alone, 
and  remembering  the  other  command  of  the 
tyrant  to  instruct  the  monk  in  the  ways  of 
the  world  enquired  cheerily ;  "  Have  you 
thought  of  the  wedding  ring  Astorre  ?  for 
it  stands  written  in  the  '  Ceremonies ' :  section 
second,  paragraph  so-and-so,  "  The  rings 
shall  be  exchanged."  The  monk  replied 
he  would  hunt  up  one  among  the  family 
jewels. 

"  No,  indeed,  Astorre,"  said  Ascanio,  "  if 
you  take  my  advice  you  will  buy  your  Diana 
a  new  one.  Who  knows  what  stories  may 
be  attached  to  a  ring  which  has  been  used } 
Leave  the  past  entirely  behind  !  Moreover 
you  have  now  the  best  opportunity.  Go, 
and  buy  her  a  ring  of  the  Florentine  on  the 
bridge.  Do  you  know  the  man  ?  —  yet  how 
should  you }  Listen  !  early  this  morning  as  I 
was  crossing  the  bridge  on  foot  with  Germano 


82  The  Mo7ik's  Wedding, 

(the  crowd  was  so  thick  that  we  had  been 
obHged  to  dismount  and  lead  our  horses)  I 
saw,  my  dear  fellow,  that  at  the  weather- 
beaten  head  of  the  pier  a  goldsmith  had 
opened  his  shop  and  all  Padua  was  haggling 
and  chaffering  over  his  jewels.  And  why 
on  the  bridge,  do  you  ask,  Astorre,  when 
there  are  so  many  more  convenient  places  ? 
Because  in  Florence  all  the  jew^elry  shops 
are  on  the  Arno  bridge.  Then,  (admire  the 
logic  of  fashion,)  where  should  one  buy  his 
jewelry  if  not  of  a  Florentine  and  where 
should  a  Florentine  sell  it  if  not  on  a  bridge  ? 
He  would  never  think  of  doing  differently ; 
if  he  does,  his  wares  are  always  suspected  of 
being  coarse  and  common,  and  in  fact,  he 
himself  of  being  no  genuine  Florentine. 
But  there's  no  mistake  as  to  this  man.  He 
has  written  in  enormous  letters  over  his 
booth,  "  Niccolo  Lippo  dei  Lippi,  the  gold- 
smith, exiled  from  his  home  by  one  of  those 
corrupt  and  unjust  decrees  but  too  common 
on  the  Arno.  Come,  Astorre,  let  us  go  to 
the  bridge." 

Astorre  did  not  refuse.     He  may  himself 
have  felt  the  need  of  breaking  the  spell  of 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  8j 

isolation  which  had  bound  him  to  the  house 
ever  since  he  threw  off  the  monk's  garb. 

"  Have  you  any  money  in  your  pocket  ?  " 
asked  Ascanio  jokingly,  "  remember  your 
vow  of  poverty  is  broken  and  the  Florentine 
will  charge  you  enough."  The  monk  rapped 
on  a  window-pane  in  the  room  of  the  house- 
steward,  conveniently  situated  on  the  lower 
floor  over  which  the  young  men  were  now 
passing;  the  cunning  face  of  the  steward 
instantly  appeared  (a  Genoese,  if  I've  been 
rightly  informed)  and  with  a  fawning  bow 
he  reached  his  master  a  purse  well-filled  with 
Byzantine  gold.  A  servant  then  enveloped 
the  monk  in  a  comfortable  summer  mantle 
with  a  large  hood. 

Upon  the  street,  Astorre  drew  the  hood 
deep  over  his  face,  less  on  account  of  the 
burning  rays  of  the  sun,  than  from  long 
habit,  and  turning  to  his  companion  said 
pleasantly,  "  Am  I  not  to  be  trusted  to  go 
alone  on  this  small  errand,  Ascanio  }  Surely 
to  buy  a  simple  gold  ring  is  not  beyond  the 
capacity  of  a  monk,  you'll  risk  me  so  far,  a 
rivederci  when  the  vesper  bell  rings."  As- 
canio  left   him   and    called    back    over    his 


8/f  The  MonJis  Wedding, 

shoulder  "  One,  not  two,  Diana  gives  you 
yours,  remember  that  Astorre."  '  Twas  only 
one  of  the  many  light  bubbles  which  the 
merry  fellow  blew  into  the  air  every  day. 

"  If  you  ask  me.  Prince,  why  the  monk 
dismissed  his  friend,  I  answer,  that  he  longed 
to  let  the  heavenly  chords  ring  out  clear  and 
full  which  the  child  martyr  had  awakened  in 
his  soul." 

Astorre  had  reached  the  bridge.  Not- 
withstanding the  burning  heat  of  the  sun,  it 
was  crowded  with  people,  and  from  both 
shores  a  double  line  of  men  and  women 
were  passing  before  the  shop  of  the  Floren- 
tine. The  monk  was  not  recognized  under 
his  cloak,  although  now  and  again  a  ques- 
tioning eye  rested  upon  the  uncovered  part 
of  his  face.  Nobles  and  citizens  pressed 
around  the  booth.  High-born  dames  alighted 
from  their  chairs  and  consented  to  be 
squeezed  and  jostled  for  the  sake  of  buying 
a  pair  of  bracelets  or  a  coronet  qf  the  latest 
pattern.  By  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  the  Flo- 
rentine had  announced  everywhere  that  he 
should  close  to-day  after  the  Ave  Maria, 
He  had  never  dreamed  of    doing  anything 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  8^ 

of  the  sort,  but  what  does  a  lie  cost  a 
Florentine  ? 

At  last  the  monk  stood  before  the  booth, 
closely  hemmed  in  by  the  crowd.  The  be- 
sieged trader  who  seemed  to  multiply  himself 
tenfold  glanced  at  the  monk  and  at  once 
detected  his  inexperience.  "  How  can  I 
serve  the  cultivated  taste  of  Eccellenza  1 "  he 
asked.  "  Give  me  a  simple  gold  ring," 
replied  the  monk.  The  merchant  seized  a 
cup  exquisitely  wrought  and  covered  with 
reliefs  in  Florentine  taste,  and  shaking  the 
bowl  which  contained  more  than  a  hundred 
rin2:s  offered  it  to  Astorre. 

The  monk  now  found  himself  in  a  state 
of  painful  embarassment,  he  had  no  idea  of 
the  size  of  the  finger  on  which  he  was  to 
put  the  ring  and,  taking  up  several,  hesitated 
whether  to  buy  a  large  or  a  small  one.  The 
Florentine  could  not  repress  a  gibe,  for  it 
was  the  fashioji  on  the  Arno  to  add  a  sting 
to  every  speech.  "  Does  not  Eccellenza 
know  the  size  of  the  finger  he  has  pressed 
so  often  .f^  "  he  enquired,  with  innocent  mien, 
yet,  like  the  shrewd  man  he  was,  correcting 
himself   instantly    as    he    remembered    that 


S6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

most  men  preferred  being  thought  knaves 
than  fools,  gave  Astorre  two  rings,  a  large 
and  a  small  one,  which  he  contrived  to  slip 
between  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  the 
monk:  "for  the  Signor's  two  loves,"  he 
whispered,  bowing. 

Before  the  monk,  however,  could  manifest 
his  indignation  at  this  impudent  remark  he 
received  a  violent  blow.  It  was  the  shoulder- 
piece  of  ^  horse  in  armor,  which  struck  him 
so  hard  that  he  let  the  small  ring  fall  to  the 
ofround.  At  the  same  moment  the  deafen- 
ing  blast  of  eight  trumpets  sounded  in  his 
ears.  The  band  of  the  governor's  German 
body-guard  was  riding  in  two  lines  of  four 
horses  each  over  the  bridge,  shoving  the 
crowd  in  all  directions  and  pressing  the 
people  up  against  the  stone  parapet. 

The  old  wooden  planks  of  the  bridge 
wxre  much  worn,  and,  especially  in  the 
middle,  full  of  ruts,  into  one  of  which  the 
rinof  fell,  and  rolled  over  to  the  other  side. 
Here  a  young  maid  named  Isotta  (or,  as 
they  shorten  the  name  in  Padua,  Sotte) 
snatched  up  the  sparkling  thing,  at  the  im- 
minent risk  of    being   trampled  on    by    the 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  8y 

horses.  "  A  lucky  ring !  "  shouted  the  silly 
girl  and  with  childish  glee  forced  it  on  to 
the  slender  finger  of  her  young  mistress, 
whom  she  was  accompanying ;  it  was  the 
fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand,  which  by  its 
delicate  shape,  seemed  to  her  especially 
worthy  of  this  pretty  ornament.  In  Padua, 
as  in  Verona,  if  I  am  right,  they  wear  the 
betrothal-ring  on  the  left  hand. 

The  noble  Signorina  was  aiihoyed  at 
Sotte's  joke  and  yet  somewhat  amused  by  it. 
She  struggled  hard  to  pull  the  strange  ring 
off  again,  but  it  resisted  her  efforts  as  if  it 
had  been  molded  on.  Suddenly  the  monk 
stood  before  her  in  an  attitude  of  joyful  sur- 
prise. He  had  laid  his  left  hand  over  his 
heart  while  his  right  was  extended  toward 
her,  for  although  she  had  attained  the 
bloom  of  maidenhood,  by  the  exquisite  deli- 
cacy of  her  throat,  and  still  more  by  the 
beating  of  his  own  heart,  he  had  recognized 
the  child  whose  tender  head  he  last  saw  on 
the  block. 

Whilst  the  young  girl  stood  confused, 
now  lifting  her  questioning  eyes  to  the 
monk  and  then  letting   them  fall   upon  the 


88  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

refractory  ring,  Astorre  hesitated  to  ask 
her  for  it,  still  it  had  to  be  done.  He 
opened  his  lips  ;  "  Signorina  "  he  began  and 
felt  himself  in  the  embrace  of  two  strong 
mailed  arms,  which  had  taken  possession  of 
him  bodily.  In  a  moment  with  the  help  of 
another  soldier  he  was  seated  astride  an 
impatient  steed.  "  Let  us  see,"  laughed  a 
good-natured  voice,  "  whether  you  have  for- 
gotten how  to  ride."  It  was  Germane,  at 
the  head  of  the  German  cohort,  which  the 
Governor  had  ordered  out  for  a  review  in  the 
plain  near  Padua.  Meeting  his  brother-in- 
law  in  this  unexpected  manner  on  the  bridge 
he  had  conceived  the  joke  of  mounting  him 
on  one  of  the  horses  from  w^hich  a  young 
Swabian  sprang  off  at  his  command.  The 
fiery  steed,  detecting  instantly  the  change  of 
riders,  made  a  couple  of  wild  springs ;  it 
caused  a  stampede  on  the  crowded  bridge, 
and  Astorre,  whose  hood  had  fallen  back, 
and  who,  with  difficulty  kept  hold  of  the 
reins,  was  recognized  by  the  startled  people. 
"  The  Monk !  The  Monk  !  "  resounded  from 
all  sides,  but  the  martial  troop  had  already 
left  the  bridge  and  soon  disappeared  round 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  <?p 

the  corner  of  the  street.  The  Florentine, 
who  was  left  unpaid,  rushed  after  him.  He 
had  scarcely  gone  twenty  steps,  however, 
when  he  turned  back,  afraid  to  leave  his 
wares  under  the  slight  protection  of  a  small 
boy,  and  besides,  the  cries  of  the  multitude 
warned  him  that  he  had  to  deal  with  some 
one  well  known  in  the  city  who  could  be 
easily  hunted  up.  He  had  Astorre's  palace 
pointed  out  to  him  and  presented  himself 
there  that  same  day,  the  following,  and  the 
day  after.  The  two  first  days  he  could  get 
no  answer  to  his  questions,  for  the  monk's 
household  v/as  turned  upside  down,  the 
third  he  found  the  tyrant's  seal  affixed  to  the 
closed  door;  this  frightened  the  coward  and 
he  went  off  without  his  pay. 

Meanwhile  the  women,  Antiope,  the  giddy 
maid,  and  a  third,  who,  separated  from  them 
by  the  tumult  on  the  bridge,  had  now  re- 
joined them,  started  off  in  an  opposite 
direction.  This  third  was  an  odd-looking, 
prematurely  aged  woman,  with  deeply  fur- 
rowed brow  and  gray  bushy  locks,  She  had 
an  excited  air  as  she  dragged  her  untidy, 
but  still  aristocratic  dress,  through  the  dust 
of  the  streets. 


go  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

With  foolish  exultation  Sotte  instantly 
•  related  to  the  elderly  lady,  evidently  the 
mother  of  the  damsel,  the  occurrence  on  the 
bridge.  Astorre,  she  also  had  recognized 
him  by  the  cries  of  the  people.  Astorre, 
the  monk,  whose  wooing  was  the  talk  of  the 
town,  had  surreptitiously  rolled  to  the  feet 
of  Antiope  a  gold  ring,  and  when  she,  Sotte, 
)y  perceiving  the  hand  of  Fate,  and  the  cun- 
ning of  the  monk,  had  put  the  ring  on  the 
dear  girl's  hand,  the  monk  himself  had  stept 
up  to  them  and,  when  Antiope  modestly 
wished  to  return  the  ring,  had  laid  his  left 
hand  tenderly  on  his  heart  —  here  she  imi- 
tated the  monk  raising  his  right  hand  in 
refusal,  with  a  gesture  which  in  all  Italy 
says,  and  signifies,  "  Keep  it,  my  dear !  " 

At  last  the  astounded  Antiope  found  a 
chance  to  say  a  word  for  herself,  and  be- 
sought her  mother  to  pay  no  heed  to  Sotte's 
nonsense,  but  in  vain.  Signora  Olympia 
raised  her  hands  toward  Heaven,  and  in  the 
open  streets  thanked  St.  Anthony  with  fer- 
vor for  having  listened  to  her  daily  prayer,  be- 
yond all  hopes  or  expectations,  in  that  he  had 
bestowed  upon  her  darling  one  of   his  own 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  gi 

sons,  a  well-born  virtuous  man.  She  accom- 
panied all  this  with  such  extravagant  gesticu- 
lation that  the  passers-by  laughed  and  tapped 
their  foreheads.  The  bewildered  Antiope 
tried  in  all  conceivable  ways  to  reason  her 
mother  out  of  the  delusion ;  the  elderly 
Canossa  refused  to  listen,  and  went  on  pas- 
sionately building  up  her  air-castle. 

When  the  ladies  reached  the  Canossa 
palace  they  were  met  in  the  arched  door-way 
by  a  stiffly  attired  Majordomo  followed  by 
six  gorgeously  dressed  servants.  Messer 
Burcardo  stept  back  respectfully  to  allow 
Madonna  Olympia  to  ascend  the  stairs  first. 
Entering  one  of  the  deserted  halls  he  made 
three  measured  bows,  each  one  deeper  than 
the  last,  and  bringing  him  a  little  nearer  to 
the  ladies,  when  he  said  slowly  and  with 
great  solemnity :  "  lUustrissimi,  Astorre 
Vicedomini  sends  me  to  invite  you  most 
humbly  to  his  espousals  this  evening  (he 
repressed  with  bitterness  "  in  ten  days  ")  at 
the  ringing  of  the  vesper  bell."  — 

Dante  paused.  Abundance  of  material  for 
his  romance  lay  before  him  but  his  severe 
taste  led  him  to  wish  to  simplify  and  arrange 
it. 


g2  The  Moiik^s  Wedding, 

"  My  Dante,"  said  Cangrande,  "  I  admire 
the  strong  clear-cut  outlines  with  which  you 
have  drawn  your  Florentines.  Niccolo 
Lippo  dei  Lippi  was  banished  from  Florence 
by  a  corrupt  and  unrighteous  decree,  but 
he  himself  is  an  extortioner,  flatterer,  liar, 
scoffer,  cheat  and  coward,  all  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Florentines.  But  this  is  only  a 
faint  shower  compared  with  that  fiery  rain 
of  denunciation  which  you  have  poured 
down  on  your  beloved  city,  only  one  last 
drop  of  the  gall  and  vinegar  which  you  have 
given  to  the  Florentines  in  some  parts 
/  of  your  Commedia.  Let  me  tell  you  it  is 
■  ignoble  to  defame  one's  birthplace  and  to 
give  your  own  mother  cause  to  blush.  It  is 
not  becoming.  It  does  not  make  a  good 
impression. 

I  will  tell  you  of  a  puppet  show  which  I 
saw  the  other  day,  while  going  about  dis- 
guised among  my  people.  You  are  perhaps 
shocked  to  hear  that  I  have  such  low  taste 
as  to  enjoy  puppets  and  fools  in  my  leisure 
moments.  Yet  imagine  yourself  standing 
with  me  before  the  little  stage.  What  do 
you  see  1     A  man  and  his  wife  quarreling. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  gj 

He  whips  her  and  she  weeps.  A  neighbor 
puts  his  head  in  at  the  door,  scolds  the  man, 
rebukes  him,  in  short,  interferes.  But  lo! 
the  brave  wife  raises  up  against  the  intruder 
and  takes  the  part  of  her  husband.  "  What 
if  it  is  my  pleasure  to  be  whipped,"  she  sobs. 

Even  so,  my  Dante,  a  noble-spirited  man 
if  ill-treated  by  his  father-land  still  says 
*'  What  if  it  is  my  pleasure  to  be  whipped  1 " 

Many  young  keen  eyes  were  directed  upon 
the  Florentine.  He  remained  silent,  with 
bowed  head.  What  was  passing  in  his 
mind  no  one  knew,  but  wdien  he  raised  his 
face  again  his  brow  was  sadder,  his  mouth 
sterner  and  more  severe.  He  listened.  The 
wind  howled  round  the  turrets  of  the  castle 
and  blew  open  a  loosely-fastened  shutter  in 
the  apartment  where  the  party  were  sitting. 
Monte  Baldo  had  sent  its  first  cold  blast. 
They  saw  the  flakes  whirling  about  in  the 
air  lighted  up  by  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  The 
poet  gazed  at  the  snow-storm,  and  his  days, 
which  he  felt  were  gliding  away,  seemed  to 
him  like  these  white  flakes,  hunted  and 
driven  through  the  air,  lighted  up  only  now 
and  then  by  an  unsteady  gleam.  He  shiv- 
ered with  cold.' 


g^  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

And  his  sympathetic  listeners  reaHzed,  as 
he  did,  that  no  true  home,  but  only  the  un- 
certain favor  of  fickle  patrons  protected  him 
from  the  storms  of  winter  which  were  sweep- 
ing over  fields  and  highways.  All  felt,  but 
none  more  than  Cangrande,  whose  spirit 
was  indeed  great  and  noble, —  here  sits  a 
homeless  wanderer. 

The  Prince  rose  and  shaking  the  fool 
like  a  feather  from  his  mantle,  went  up  to 
the  exiled  man  and  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  as  he  gave  him  his  own  place  near  the 
fire  said,  "  This  seat  is  yours,  by  right !  '* 
Dante  did  not  gainsay  it.  Cangrande  him- 
self took  possession  of  the  empty  stool. 
Here  he  could  comfortably  observe  the  two 
ladies,  between  whom  the  wanderer  through 
the  Inferno  now  sat.  The  firelight  shone 
upon  him,  and  he  continued  his  story  as 
follows :  —T- 

"  While  the  vesper  bells  in  Padua  were 
sounding,  there  assembled  under  the  stately 
rafters  of  the  Vicedomini  hall  all  the  mem- 
bers that  remained  of  the  twelve  noble 
families.  They  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
master  of   the  house.     Diana  stood  beside 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  P5 

her  father  and  brother.  A  low  murmur  of 
talk  went  on.  The  men  discussed  gravely 
the  political  effect  of  this  union  of  two  great 
city  families.  The  young  people  joked  in 
an  undertone  over  the  idea  of  a  married 
monk.  The  older  ladies  shuddered,  in  spite 
of  the  Pope's  letter,  at  the  sacrilege,  and 
only  those  surrounded  by  growing  daughters 
were  disposed  to  regard  it  in  a  milder  light 
and  find  excuses  on  the  plea  of  the  ex- 
traordinary pressure  of  circumstances,  or 
the  tender-heartedness  of  the  monk.  The 
maidens  were  one  and  all  aglow  with  expec- 
tation. 

The  presence  of  Olympia  Canossa  caused 
wonder  and  uneasiness,  for  she  was  showily 
dressed,  in  regal  style,  as  if  prepared 
to  take  a  prominent  part  in  the  approach- 
ing ceremony,  and  was  now  talking  with 
strange  eagerness  and  volubility  to  her 
daughter  Antiope,  who  endeavoured,  though 
apparently  in  vain,  to  calm  her  by  whispered 
entreaties  and  caresses.  Madonna  Olympia 
had  already  been  considerably  offended  on 
the  stairs  where,  Messer  Burcardo  being 
occupied  with   the   reception   of   two   other 


g6         '       The  Moiik's  Wedding. 

noble  families,  they  had  been  greeted  by 
Gocciola,  holding  most  respectfully  his  new 
scarlet  cap  with  the  silver  bells  in  his  hands. 
She  frightened  or  annoyed  the  other  guests 
by  her  extravagant  gesticulations.  The  poor 
creature  was  pointed  at  by  everybody.  No 
one  else  in  the  monk's  place  would  ever  have 
thought  of  inviting  her,  and  they  all  felt  sure 
she  would  play  them  one  of  her  mad  pranks. 
Messer  Burcardo  announced  his  lord.  In 
the  afternoon  Astorre  having  freed  himself  as 
soon  as  possible,  from  Germano,  had  re- 
turned to  the  bridge,  where  of  course,  neither 
the  ring  nor  the  ladies  were  to  be  found. 
He  overvv'helmed  himself  with  reproaches,  al- 
though in  truth,  chance  only  was  to  blame,  and 
in  the  hours  whicTT  remained  to  him  before  ves- 
pers, he  framed  the  resolve  to  behave  more 
circumspectly  in  future.  Filled  with  this  de- 
termination he  now  entered  the  hall  and  stept 
into  the  midst  of  the  assembly.  The  con-, 
sciousness  of  being  the  object  of  general  atten- 
tion and  the  constraint  and  demands  of  society 
which  he  felt,  so  to  speak,  in  the  air,  suggested 
to  him  that  the  bare  truth,  strong  and  hateful 
as  it  was,  could  not  be  spoken,  but  that  he 


The  Mo7ik's  Wedding.  gy 

must  give  it  a  milder  and  more  pleasing  as- 
pect. He  instinctively  struck  the  mean  be- 
tween truth  and  conventionality  and  spoke 
as  follows :  — 

"  Noble  friends  and  fellow  kinsmen  :  death 
has  reaped  a  rich  harvest  among  us  Vicedom- 
ini.  As  I  stand  before  you  clothed  in  black 
I  wear  mourning  for  my  father,  three  brothers 
and  three  nephews.  Set  free  by  the  church, 
after  mature  deliberation  and  conscientious 
weighing  of  the  matter  before  God  (here  his 
voice  grew  husky),  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
disregard  or  leave  unfulfilled  the  wish  of  a 
dying  father  to  perpetuate,  his  race.  You 
will  judge  this  act  of  mine  according  to  the 
justice  and  clemency  inherent  in  you  and 
either  approve  or  condemn  me.  But  in  one 
point  you  wdll  all  agree,  that,  considering  my 
past  life  it  would  have  ill  become  me  to  hes- 
itate and  choose,  and  that  only  such  a  union 
could  be  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  God  as 
offered  itself  most  naturally. 

With  whom  could  it  seem  more  natural  to 
form  a  lasting  bond,  than  with  this  young 
widow  to  whom  I  am  already  united  by  my 
inconsolable   grief  for  the    loss  of   my  dear 


g8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

brother?  Therefore  I  took  this  hand  over 
the  deathbed  of  my  dear  father,  as  I  take  it 
now,"  —  he  stepped  up  to  Diana,  led  her  into 
the  centre  of  the  room,  —  "  and  I  put  on  her 
finger  the  betrothal  ring."       ^  ^^j  ^<kJn,.^ 

It  was  done.  The  ring  fitted.  Diana  like- 
wise put  a  ring  on  the  monk's  finger.  "  It 
belonged  to  my  mother,"  she  said,  "  who  was 
a  true  and  virtuous  wife.  I  give  thee  a  ring 
which  has  kept  troth."  A  ceremonious 
murmur  of  congratulation,  from  all  present, 
closed  the  solemn  act,  and  the  aged  Pizzi- 
guerra,  a  hale,  white-haired  old  man,  for  ava- 
rice does  not  shorten  one's  existence,  wept  the 
usual  tear. 

Madonna  Olympia  saw  her  dream  castle 
burst  into  flames  and  burn  with  crackling 
timbers  and  falling  pillars.  She  took  one 
step  forward  as  if  to  convince  herself  that  her 
eyes  were  not  deceiving  her,  then  another, 
becoming  ever  wilder,  and  now  she  stood 
directly  before  Astorre  and  Diana,  her  gray 
hair  bristling,  while  mad  words,  like  the  cries 
of  an  infuriated  mob,  poured  from  her  lips. 

"  Wretch  !  "  she  shrieked,  "  against  the  ring 
on  the  finger  of  this  lady  protests  another, 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  gg 

and  the  one  which  was  first  given."  She 
grasped  Antiope,  who  had  followed  her  with 
increasing  anxiety,  drew  her  forward  and 
raised  the  young  girl's  hand  as  she  said, 
"  This  ring  you  put  on  the  finger  of  my  child 
near  the  shop  of  the  Florentine  upon  the 
bridge  not  an  hour  ago :  "  for  thus  had  she 
shaped  the  facts  in  her  disordered  brain. 
*'  Infamous  man  !  Treacherous  monk  !  why 
does  not  the  earth  open  and  swallow  you  ? 
We  will  hang  the  porter  of  your  cloister,  who 
snored  over  his  pipe,  and  let  you  escape  from 
your  cell.  If  you  would  follow  your  guilty 
passions  you  might  choose  another  prey  than 
an  unjustly  persecuted,  lonely  widow,  and  an 
unprotected  orphan. 

The  marble  floor  did  not  open,  and  the 
poor  unhappy  woman,  who  thought  she  was 
expressing  her  just  indignation  very  mildly, 
read  in  the  eyes  of  the  guests  surrounding  her 
outright  scorn,  or  pity  of  a  wholly  different 
kind  from  that  which  she  had  expected.  She 
heard  behind  her  whispered  clearly  the  word 
*'  fool,"  and  her  rage  burst  out  in  crazy  laugh, 
ter.  "  Who  is  the  fool  here  ?  "  she  asked 
with    a   scornful    sneer ;    "  who,  but   a    fool, 


100  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

could  choose  so  stupidly  between  these  two  ? 
I  make  you  judges,  you  Signors  and  all  who 
have  eyes.  Here  is  a  charming  little  head 
and  the  fresh  beauty  of  youth  "  ;  —  the  rest  I 
have  forgotten  —  only  this  hint  I  remember 
distinctly,  that  among  the  young  men,  more 
than  one  might  have  been  a  rake.  All 
the  youths  —  those  who  were  virtuous  and 
those  who  were  not  —  closed  their  eyes  and 
ears  to  the  excited  behaviour  of  a  mother  who 
was  trampling  under  foot  the  modesty  and 
reputation  of  the  child  that  she  had  borne. 

Everybody  in  the  hall  pitied  Antiope,  ex- 
cept Diana  who,  though  far  from  doubting 
the  monk's  truth,  felt  a  species  of  resentment 
toward  the  beauty,  so  boldly  paraded  before 
her  bridegroom. 

Antiope  may  have  done  wrong  in  keeping 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  perhaps  she  did  it  in 
order  not  to  irritate  farther  her  already 
distracted  mother,  and  hoping  the  poor 
woman  when  undeceived  by  the  reality, 
would,  as  usual,  come  down  from  her  high 
horse,  and  after  a  few  resentful  glances  and 
murmured  words,  resign  herself  to  the  inevi- 
table; or  perhaps  the   young   Antiope    had 


The  Monk's  Weddinor,  joi 


^> 


herself  dipped  a  finger  in  the  bubbhng  fairy 
spring.  Was  not  the  meeting  on  the  bridge 
strange  indeed,  and  if  she  should  be  proved 
to  have  been  the  monk's  choice,  would  it  be 
more  remarkable  than  the  fate  which  had 
torn  him  from  the  cloister? 

But  if  this  was  the  case  she  now  suffered 
a  most  cruel  punishment.  Her  own  mother 
had  soiled  her  fair  fame  by  unlicensed  speech. 

A  deep  blush,  and  a  still  deeper,  covered 
her  face  and  neck,  then,  in  the  general 
silence  she  began  to  weep  loud  and  bitterly. 

At  this  even  the  gray-haired  Atenad 
stopped  and  listened.  Then  a  frightful 
pain  seemed  to  convulse  her  face  and  her 
rage  increased.  "  And  this  other "  she 
shrieked,  pointing  to  Diana,  "  this  broad 
piece  of  marble,  scarcely  hewed  out  of  the 
rough,  this  ill-made  giantess,  which  the 
Almighty  Father  formed  when  he  was  still 
an  apprentice  just  learning  to  knead  the 
dough,  fie !  fie  !  on  this  bungled  clumsy  body 
without  life  and  soul,  for  who  could  have 
given  her  a  soul.^^  her  bastard  mother,  the 
stupid  Ossola }  or  that  niggardly  miser  there } 
Only  with  reluctance  has  he  given  her  the 
barest  apology  for  one." 


102  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

The  old  Pizziguerra  stood  perfectly  un- 
moved ;  with  the  clear  understanding  of  a 
miser  he  did  not  forget  whom  he  had  before 
him.  But  his  daughter  Diana  forgot  it. 
Beside  herself,  at  the  rude  insult  offered  her, 
she  frowned  terribly,  and  clenched  her  hands, 
but,  when  the  crazy  woman  attacked  her 
parents,  insulted  her  mother  in  the  grave, 
and  held  up  her  father  to  general  contempt, 
she  lost  all  trace  of  self-control. 

"  Hound ! "  she  exclaimed,  and  struck  An- 
tiope  in  the  face,  for  the  loving  and  coura- 
2:eous  srirl  had  thrown  herself  before  her 
mother;  Antiope  uttered  a  cry  which  rang 
through  the  hall  and  thrilled  to  the  heart 
every  one  present. 

The  w^heel  in  the  head  of  the  poor  crazy 
woman  turned  completely  round.  Her  wild 
fury  changed  into  piteous  wailing.  "  They 
have  beaten  my  child "  she  groaned,  sank 
upon  her  knees  and  sobbed,  "  is  there  no 
longer  any  God  in   Heaven } " 

With     this    the    measure    was     full.     It 

^    'would  have  run  over  earlier,  but  that  Fate 

rushed  on  quicker    than    my  tongue    could 

relate  it,  so  quick    indeed    that   neither  the 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  loj 

monk,  nor  Germano  standing  close  beside 
her  saw  Diana's  uplifted  arm  in  time  to 
seize  and  restrain  it.  Ascanio  grasped  the 
mad  woman  round  the  waist,  one  of  his 
friends  took  her  by  the  feet  and,  scarcely- 
resisting,  she  was  carried  out  of  the  hall,  put 
into  her  chair,  and  taken  home. 

Diana  and  Antiope  remained  standing 
face  to  face,  one  whiter  than  the  other; 
Diana,  contrite  and  repentant  after  her 
sudden  fit  of  passion ;  Antiope  struggling 
for  words, —  her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
escaped  them. 

If  the  -monk  now  seized  Antiope's  hand  to 
give  his  escort  to  her,  who  had  been  so  mal- 
treated by  his  betrothed  wife,  he  only  fulfilled 
his  chivalrous  and  hospitable  duty.  Every- 
body understood  this.  Diana,  too,  must 
surely  desire  to  have  the  victim  of  her  violence 
withdrawn  from  her  sight.  After  a  little 
while  she  departed  with  her  father  and  brother, 
and  the  assembled  guests  likewise  left  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

There  came  a  sound  from  under  the  table 
loaded  with  Cyprian  wine  and  Amarella.  A 
fool's  cap  appeared  and  Gocciola  crept  on  all 


104  ^^^^  Monk's  Weddmg, 

fours  out  of  his  agreeable  hiding-place.  In 
his  view  the  course  things  had  taken  was 
only  too  delightful,  since  now  he  had  full 
freedom  to  gorge  himself  with  Amarella,  and 
to  empty  one  glass  after  another.  Thus  he 
revelled  for  a  time  until  he  heard  steps  ap- 
proaching. His  first  impulse  was  to  fly,  but 
casting  an  angry  look  on  the  intruder  he 
deemed  flight  unnecessary.  It  was  the 
monk  returning  to  his  princely  home  joyous, 
exultant,  and  quite  as  intoxicated  as  himself, 
for  the  monk  — "      '' 

"  Loved  Antiope,"  interrupted  the  Prince's 
fair  friend  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  You  have  said  it,  lady,"  responded  the 
narrator  in  a  tragic  tone,  *'  he  loved  Antiope." 

"  Naturally."  "  How  else  .^  "  "  It  must  be 
so  !  "  "  'Tis  the  usual  way !  "  resounded  from 
all  sides. 

"Softly,  young  people,"  murmured  Dante. 
*'  No,  'tis  not  the  usual  way.  Do  you  think 
then  that  a  love  which  implies  the  surrender 
of  life  and  soul  is  an  everyday  affair }  And 
do  you  really  imagine  that  you  have  or  are 
t/  loving  in  this  way  t  Undeceive  yourselves. 
Everyone  talks  of  spirits  but  few  have  seen 


The  Monis s  Wedding.  loß 

them.  I  will  give  you  an  indisputable  proof 
of  this.  There  is  lying  about  in  the  house 
here  a  much-read  storybook.  Skimming 
through  it  I  discovered  amid  plenty  of  rub- 
bish one  true  word.  "  Love,"  says  this  book, 
"is  rare,  and  generally  comes  to  a  bad  end." 
Thus  much  Dante  had  said  in  all  seriousness, 
then  he  went  on  playfully.  "  Since  you  are 
all  so  thoroughly  versed  in  love,  and  especi- 
ally since  it  does  not  fall  within  my  province 
to  instruct  the  young  from  my  worthless 
head  in  such  matters,  I  will  pass  by  the 
treacherous  soliloquy  of  the  monk  and  say 
briefly  that  when  the  sensible  Ascanio  over- 
heard it,  he  was  alarmed  and  tried  to  reason 
with  him." 

"  Will  you  mutilate  your  touching  romance 
in  this  way,  noble  Dante  .^  "  said  the  excited 
friend  of  the  Prince,  as  she  turned  toward 
the  Florentine  with  imploring  hands.  "Pray, 
let  us  hear  what  the  monk  says,  that  our 
sympathy  may  be  with  him  as  we  see  him 
turn  from  a  rough  to  a  delicate  nature ;  from 
a  cold  and  stormy  heart,  to  one  that  is  warm 
and  full  of  feeling." 

"  Yes,   Florentine,"   interrupted  the   Prin- 


io6  The  Monk's  Weddings, 


<b 


cess  with  burning  cheeks,  "let  your  monk 
speak  that  we  may  hear  with  amazement 
how  it  was  that  Astorre,  however  inexperi- 
enced, and  easily  duped,  could  have  been 
tempted  to  leave  a  noble  woman  for  a  wily 
flirt ;  for  have  you  not  perceived  that  Anti- 
ope  is  a  flirt  ?  You  know  women  little,  how- 
ever. In  truth  I  assure  you,"  she  raised  her 
powerful  arm  and  rolled  her  fist —  "  that,  I 
too  would  have  struck,  not  the  poor  crazy 
woman,  but,  deliberatel}^  the  cunning  flirt, 
who  was  determined  at  any  cost  to  attract  to 
herself  the  attention  of  the  monk,"  and  she 
struck  the  blow  in  the  air.  The  friend  of 
the  Prince  trembled. 

Cangrande,  who  never  took  his  eyes  off 
the  two  ladies  sitting  opposite  him,  admired 
this  display  of  passion  on  the  part  of  his 
Princess.  He  found  her,  at  that  moment, 
incomparably  more  beautiful  than  the  deli- 
cate little  rival  he  had  given  her ;  the  high- 
est and  deepest  feelings  only  come  to  full 
expression  in  a  strong  body  and  powerful 
soul. 

Dante,  on  his  side,  smiled,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  during  this  evening,  as  he  saw 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  loj 

the  two  ladies  contending  so  sharply  over 
the  action  of  his  story.  He  even  conde- 
scended to  a  touch  of  raillery. 

"  Princesses,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  de- 
mand of  me?  Soliloquy  is  irrational:  Does 
a  wise  man  ever  talk  to  himself  ?  " 

A  saucy,  curly-haired  page  now  started  up 
from  behind  a  chair  and  cried:  "  How  little, 
great  Master,  are  you  aware  of  what  you 
have  asserted !  Know,  Dante,  that  nobody 
talks  more  earnestly  and  volubly  to  himself 
than  you.  To  such  a  degree  indeed  that  you 
not  only  overlook  stupid  boys  like  myself, 
but,  let  even  beauty  pass  disregarded." 

"  Really,"  replied  Dante,  "  where  was  that 
and  when  }  "  "  Yesterday  upon  the  bridge," 
said  the  boy,  smiling.  "  You  were  leaning 
upon  its  stone  railing.  The  charming  Lucre- 
zia  Nani  passed  by,  almost  touching  your 
toga.  We  boys  followed,  admiring  her,  and 
two  fiery  soldiers  hurried  on  to  catch  one 
glance  from  her  soft  eyes.  She,  however, 
sought  yours,  for  not  everyone  has  wandered 
at  will  through  the  Inferno.  But  you  were 
watching  the  waves  in  the  river,  and  mur- 
muring something  to  yourself." 


io8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

"  I  was  sending  a  greeting  to  the  far  ocean. 
The  waves  were  more  beautiful  than  the 
maiden.  Let  us  return  to  the  two  fools. 
And  by  all  the  Muses  interrupt  me  no  more, 
else  midnioht  will  find  me  still  in  the  midst 
of  the  story." 

"When  the  monk  after  leading  Antiope 
home  re-entered  his  hall  —  I  forgot  to  say 
that  he  had  not  met  Ascanio,  although  his 
friend  had  gone  the  same  way  in  convey- 
ing Madonna  Olympia  to  her  castle  —  but  as 
soon  as  Ascanio  had  committed  the  lady  into 
the  hands  of  her  servants  he  had  hastened 
to  his  uncle,  the  tyrant,  that  he  might  retail 
to  him  the  whole  affair  as  the  last  joke. 
He  would  ten  times  rather  any  day  inform 
Ezzelin  of  a  city  scandal  than  of  a  conspiracy. 
I  know  not  whether  the  monk  really  was  as 
handsome  as  Ascanio  painted  him,  but  I  see 
him  enter  his  hall  radiant  with  the  flush  of 
youth  and  as  if  borne  onward  by  the  zephyrs 
with  flying  feet  that  skimmed  the  ground. 
His  eyes  are  full  of  sunlight  and  he  murmurs 
rapturous  words.  Gocciola  who  had  drunk 
a  great  deal  of    Cyprian  wine  likewise  felt 


The  Monies  Wedding,  log 

happy  and  rejuvenated,  under  his  feet  also 
the  marble  floor  resolved  itself  into  a  white 
cloud.  He  felt  an  unconquerable  thirst  to 
catch  the  words  as  they  fell  from  Astorre 's 
fresh  lips  and  began  to  measure  the  length 
of  the  hall  beside  him,  half-striding,  half- 
skipping,  the  fool's  sceptre  under  his  arm. 
f/  "  The  loving  head,  once  offered  for  the 
father,  has  again  made  a  sacrifice  of  itself  for 
the  mother,"  murmured  Astorre,  "  Those  deli- 
cate cheeks,  how  they  tingled  under  the 
insult !  the  poor  abused  maiden,  how  her 
cries  wrung  all  our  hearts  !  Has  she  ever 
been  out  of  my  thoughts  since  she  lay  on 
the  block  .^  She  has  dwelt  in  my  soul. 
She  has  accompanied  me,  present  everywhere, 
floating  through  my  prayers,  beaming  in  my 
cell,  her  head  upon  my  pillow.  The  darling 
head  with  the  slender  little  white  neck,  did 
I  not  see  it  even  beside  that  »of  St.  Paul ! 

"  Of  St.  Paul }  "  giggled  the  fool  "  of  the 
St.  Paul  in  our  altar  picture,  with  the  rough 
black  hair,  and  the  red  neck  on  the  low 
broad  block  and  the  executioner's  axe  over 
it } "  Gocciola  sometimes  performed  his 
devotions  in  the  Franciscan  church. 


no  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

The  monk  nodded.  "  When  I  gazed  at  it 
long  the  axe  seemed  to  quiver  and  I  shud- 
dered. Have  I  not  confessed  this  to  the 
prior  '^.  " 

"  And  what  did  the  prior  say  '^.  "  enquired 
Gocciola. 

"  My  son  ''  said  he,  "  what  you  saw  was  a 
child  heralding  the  triumphant  procession  of 
the  heavenly  hosts.  Fear  not ;  to  that  ambro- 
sial neck,  no  harm  can  come." 

"  But "  insinuated  the  wicked  fool,  "  the 
child  has  grown  up.  So  high  !  "  He  raised 
his  hand,  then  bringing  it  gradually  down 
nearly  to  the  ground,  grinned,  "  and  the 
cowl  of  your  lordship  has  dropt  so  low." 

Vulgarity  could  not  touch  the  monk. 
From  Antiope's  hand  he  had  caught  a 
creative  spark  which  now  began  to  glow  in 
his  veins,  at  first  mildly  and  tenderly,  but 
soon  more  and  more  fiercely  until  it  over- 
mastered him  completely  and  obliterated  all 
considerations.  "  Praised  be  the  Lord 
Almighty "  he  burst  out  joyfully,  "  who  has 
created  man  and  woman." 

"  Eve  ?  "  asked  the  fool. 

"  Antiope  "  replied  the  monk. 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  iii 

"  And  the  other  one,  the  tall  one,  what  will 
you  do  with  her?  Will  you  send  her 
a-begging  ?  "  and  Gocciola  wiped  his  eyes. 

"What  other?"  asked  the  monk.  "Is 
there  any  other  beside  Antiope  ?  " 

This  was  too  much  even  for  the  fool.  He 
stared  at  the  monk  with  open  mouth,  but 
was  suddenly  seized  by  a  hand  on  his  collar, 
dragged  toward  the  door  and  dropped  on  the 
pavement.  The  same  hand  was  then  laid  on 
Astorre's  shoulder.  "  Wake  up,  dreamer !  " 
cried  Ascanio,  who  had  returned  and  heard 
the  monk's  last  ecstatic  speech.  He  drew 
the  enthusiast  down  upon  the  window-seat, 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  said, 
"  Astorre  you  are  out  of  your  senses." 

The  monk  at  first  lowered  his  eyes  before 
this  searching  look,  as  if  blinded  by  it,  then 
for  a  moment  met  it  with  his  own,  full  of 
rapture  and  said  in  a  quiet  tone,  "  Do  you 
wonder? " 

"  As  little  as  I  would  at  the  kindling  of  a 
flame,"  replied  Ascanio.  "  Since  however, 
you  are  not  a  blind  element  but  a  reason  and 
a  will,  trample  out  the  flame  else  it  will  con- 
sume you  and  all  Padua.     Must  a  child  of 


112  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

the  world  teach  you  the  Divine  and  Human 
law  ?  You  are  betrothed.  This  ring  on 
your  finger  declares  it.  If  you,  having  first 
broken  your  vow,  now  break  your  engage- 
ment, you  war  against  custom,  duty,  honor, 
and  the  peace  of  the  city*  If  you  do  not 
quickly  and  heroically  draw  out  of  your  heart 
the  arrow  of  the  blind  god,  it  will  kill  you, 
Antiope,  and  a  few  others,  who  may  chance 
to  be  in  its  way.     Astorre  !     Astorre!  " 

Ascanio's  merry  lips  were  astonished  at 
the  great  and  earnest  words,  which,  in  the 
anguish  of  his  heart,  he  gave  them  to  utter. 
"  Thy  good  name  Astorre,"  he  added  half 
jokingly,  "brays  like  a  trumpet,  calling  thee 
to  fight  against  thyself." 

Astorre  mastered  himself.  "  They  have 
given  me  a  philter,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  rave, 
I  am  crazy.  Ascanio,  I  give  myself  into  thy 
power, —  Chain  me  !  " 

"  I  will  chain  you  to  Diana,"  said  Ascanio, 
"  follow  me  that  we  may  find  her." 

"  Was  it  not  Diana  who  struck  Antiope  ?  " 
asked  the  monk. 

"  Oh,  you  have  dreamed  the  whole  thing, 
you  were  out  of  your  senses.     Come,  I  con- 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  irj 

jure  you,  nay,  command  you.     I  take  you  by 
force  and  lead  you." 

If  Ascanio  had  wished  to  chase  away  the 
ugly  truth,  the  clinking  sound  of  Germano's 
heels  upon  the  floor  brought  it  all  back. 
With  resolute  face  Diana's  brother  came  up 
to  the  monk  and  seized  his  hand  saying: 
"  A  disturbed  feast,  brother-in-law.  My  sister 
sends  me  —  no,  I  deceive  you  —  she  did  not 
send  me  for  she  has  locked  herself  up  in  her 
chamber  and  there  she  sits  bemoaning  and 
cursing  her  violence  ;  to-day  we  are  drowned 
in  women's  tears.  She  loves  thee,  but  can-  ^ 
not  bring  it  over  her  lips  to  say  so,  it  is  in 
our  family,  I  cannot  say  such  things  either. 
She  has  never  for  an  instant  doubted  thee. 
The  explanation  is  simple  —  You  have  by 
accident  lost  a  ring,  or  flung  it  away,  if  it 
was  yours,  which  the  little  Canossa  (what  is 
her  name),  Antiope,  had  on  her  finger.  The 
crazy  mother  found  it  and  spun  this  yarn 
about  it.  Antiope  is,  of  course,  as  innocent 
as  a  new-born  babe,  of  the  whole  affair, — 
who  says  otherwise  must  answer  to  me." 

"  Not  I,"  cried  Astorre.     "  Antiope  is  pure 
as  an  angel.     The  ring  rolled  to  her  feet  by 


114  ^^^  Monk's  Wedding, 

chance,"  and  he  went  on  with  hurried  words 
to  explain  the  matter. 

"  But,  my  sister's  action,  can  you  find  no 
excuse  forthat,  Astorre?  "  pleaded  Germano. 
"  The  blood  rushed  to  her  head  and  she  did 
not  see  whom  she  had  before  her.  She 
meant  to  strike  the  mad  woman  who  had  in- 
sulted her  parents,  and  hit  instead  this  dear 
innocent  oirl.  She  must  be  restored  to 
honor  and  respect  before  God  and  man. 
Let  this  be  my  duty,  brother-in-law, —  I  am 
her  brother  —  it  is  simple." 

"You  speak  with  assurance,  Germano,  but 
your  meaning  is  not  clear.  What  do  you 
.propose?  How  will  you  make  amends  to 
the  poor  girl  1 "  asked  Ascanio. 

"  It  is  simple,"  repeated  Germano.  "  I  will 
offer  Antiope  Canossa  my  hand,  and  will 
make  her  my  wife." 

Ascanio  put  his  hand  to  his  brow.  The 
proposal  almost  stunned  him.  As  he  rapidly 
considered  and  looked  at  it  more  closely, 
the  heroic  resource  did  not  seem  to  him  so 
bad,  but  he  cast  an  anxious  look  at  the 
monk.  Astorre,  master  of  himself  once  more 
maintained  absolute  silence  and  listened  at- 


The  Monk's  Weddiiig.  iiß 

tentively.  The  soldier's  fine  sense  of  honor, 
with  his  directness,  seemed  to  echo  and  re- 
echo Hke  a  clear  call  through  the  desert  of 
his  soul. 

"  Thus  I  can  hit  two  birds  with  one  stone, 
Brother-in-law,"  explained  Germano.  "  The 
maiden  is  reinstated  in  her  honor  and  chas- 
tity. I  should  like  to  see  who  would  whisper 
behind  my  wife's  back,  and  I  make  peace  be- 
tween you  two  married  people.  Diana  no 
longer  needs  to  feel  ashamed  and  mortified 
before  you,  or  before  herself,  and  is  at  the 
same  time  thoroughly  cured  of  her  violent 
temper.  She  is  cured  of  it  for  life,  I  assure 
you." 

Astorre  pressed  his  hand.  "  You  are  a 
brave  honest  man,"  he  said.  The  determi- 
nation to  overcome  his  own  earthly,  or 
heavenly  passion  strengthened  in  him.  Yet 
this  resolve  was  not  free,  and  this  virtue  not 
unselfish,  for  it  was  attached  to  a  dangerous 
sophism,  viz :  —  "as  I  embrace  an  unloved 
woman,  Antiope  will  be  embraced  by  an  un- 
loved man,  who  marries  her  off-hand  to  make 
reparation  for  another's  fault ;  penance  and 
renunciation  are  everywhere  in  the  world  as 
in  the  cloister." 


Ii6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

"  What  must  be  done,  I  propose  shall  not 
be  delayed,"  urged  Germano,  "  else  she  will 
toss  about  all  night  without  sleep,"  (I  do  not 
know  whether  he  meant  Diana,  or  Antiope). 
"Brother-in-law,  go  with  me  as  witness,  we 
will  do  it  in  proper  form." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Ascanio,  frightened,  "  not 
Astorre  :  take  me  !  " 

Germano  shook  his  head,  "  Ascanio,  my 
friend,  you  are  not  suited  for  this.  You  are 
not  a  sufficiently  grave  witness  in  affairs  of 
marriage.  Moreover,  my  brother,  Astorre 
would  not  let  anybody  else  woo  for  me.  It 
is  indeed  to  a  great  extent  his  own  matter. 
Is  it  not  Astorre  '^.  "  The  monk  bowed.  "  Pre- 
pare then  directly,  Brother-in-law.  Make  your- 
self fine.  Throw  a  gold  chain  over  your 
dress." 

"  And,"  said  Ascanio,  with  a  forced  laugh, 
"as  you  pass  through  the  court  dip  your 
head  in  the  fountain." 

"  But  you,  Germano,  are  in  such  warlike 
armor !  is  it  suited  for  wooing  ?  " 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  been  out  of  armor, 
and  it  becomes  me.  Why  are  you  looking 
at  me,  with  such  scrutiny,  from  head  to  foot, 
Ascanio  ?  " 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  iiy 

"  I  am  asking  myself  whence  this  mailed 
knight  derives  his  assurance  that  he  will  not 
be  pitched  into  the  moat  together  with  his 
scaling  ladder  ?  " 

"  There  can  be  no  question  in  this  case," 
tranquilly  opined  Germano  "will  she,  insulted 
and  beaten,  as  she  has  been,  refuse  the  hand 
of  a  knight  ?  If  so,  she  is  a  greater  fool  than 
her  mother — that  is  clear  as  the  sun,  As- 
canio.     Come,  Astorre  !  " 

Whilst  with  folded  arms  the  friend  thus 
left  behind  reflected  on  the  new  turn  things 
had  taken,  questioning  whether  it  led  to  a 
play-ground  for  happy  children  or  to  the 
Campo  Santo,  his  young  companions  walked 
across  the  piazza  w^hich  divided  them  from 
tha.  Canossa  palace. 

The  cloudless  day  was  dying  in  a  sunset 
of  molten  gold,  and  the  Ave  was  ringing. 
The  monk  repeated  to  himself  the  usual 
prayer,  and  the  chimes  of  the  cloister,  which 
stood  somewhat  high,  prolonged  the  familiar 
sound  by  a  few  sad  peaceful  strokes  after  the 
city  bells  were  hushed.  The  monk  was  con- 
scious of  sharing  in  the  universal  peace. 

Just  then  his  eyes  were  attracted  to  the 


Ii8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

face  of  his  friend  and  rested  on  his  weather- 
hardened  features.  They  were  lighted  up 
with  the  joy  of  duty  fulfilled  beyond  question, 
but  more  still  by  the  unconscious,  or  uncon- 
sciously manifest  happiness  at  reaching  the 
port  of  a  blessed  island  under  sails  filled 
with  the  breath  of  honor  and  of  chivalrous 
action.  "  The  sweet  innocent !  "  sighed  the 
soldier ! 

With  the  speed  of  lightning  the  idea  shot 
through  Astorre's  brain  that  Diana's  brother 
deceived  himself  if  he  thought  he  was  act- 
insf  from  disinterested  motives.  On  the 
contrary  Germano  loved  Antiope,  and  was 
his  rival.  He  felt  a  sharp  pang,  and  then  one 
still  sharper,  until  he  could  have  shrieked, 
and  a  whole  nest  of  furious  snakes  seemed 
writhing  and  raging  in  his  bosom.  May 
God  protect  us  all,  both  men  and  women, 
from  jealousy  !  It  is  the  most  insidious  of 
the  passions,  and  who  suffers  it  is  more 
damned  than  any  inhabitant  of  hell. 

With  suffocating  heart  and  a  face  tortured 
by  dismay  the  monk  followed  the  self- 
confident  wooer  up  the  steps  of  the  palace 
they  had  now  reached.     It  was  empty  and 


The  Monk's  Weddii. 


iig 


deserted.  Madonna  Olympia  had  probably 
locked  herself  into  her  own  room.  There 
were  no  attendants  and  all  the  doors  in  the 
main  part  of  the  hall  stood  open.  They 
walked  on  unannounced  through  a  long 
suite  of  already  darkening  apartments. 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  last  room  they 
stopped,  for  the  young  Antiope  was  sitting  at 
the  window. 

Her  outline  In  the  trefoil  arch  was  pen- 
cilled against  the  brilliant  evening  sky. 
Her  unbound  hair  rose  like  a  crown  of 
thorns  above  her  brow  while  her  lano^uishino- 
half-opened  lips  seemed  to  drink  in  the 
amber  air.  The  stricken  maiden,  wearied 
out  by  the  pressure  of  shame  she  had  suf- 
fered, rested  with  closed  eyes  and  arms  hang- 
ing listlessly,  but  in  the  stillness  of  her  heart 
she  rejoiced  and  welcomed  the  shameful 
treatment  for  had  it  not  united  her  forever 
to  Astorre  ?  And  is  not  the  highest,  purest 
love  kindled  to-day,  and  has  it  not  ever  been, 
by  the  deepest  pity  ?  Who  can  withstand 
the  sight  of  beauty  when  suffering  unjustly  t 
I  -mean  no  blasphemy,  but  was  not  the 
Divine  One  also  beaten,  and  we  kiss  his 
stripes  and  wounds. 


120  The  Mojtk's  Weddmg, 

Antiope  did  not  ask  if  Astorre  loved  her. 
^  She  knew  it.  She  had  no  doubts,  and  in- 
deed was  more  assured  of  this  than  of  the 
breath  she  drew,  although  she  had  not 
exchanged  a  syllable  with  Astorre  from  the 
first  step  of  the  way  until  they  reached  her 
house.  Their  hands  were  not  more  firmly 
clasped  at  last  than  from  the  first.  They  be- 
longed together.  Their  spirits  met  as  easily 
as  two  airy  flames,  and  yet,  at  the  moment  of 
parting,  seemed  harder  to  separate  than  roots 
which  by  the  growth  of  years  had  become 
firmly  entwined  together. 

Antiope  was  trespassing  on  foreign  prop- 
erty, and  had  robbed  Diana,  but  with  a 
guileless  soul,  for  she  had  no  longer  any  con 
science,  or  even  self-consciousness.  Padua, 
that  with  its  towers,  lay  spread  out  before 
her  in  full  sight;  her  mother,  the  monk's 
betrothal,  Diana,  the  entire  world,  all  had 
vanished ;  she  saw  nothing  but  the  vault  of 
heaven  filled  with  lio-ht  and  love. 

Astorre  struggled  with  himself  from  the 
first  to  the  last  step  of  the  staircase,  and 
thought  he  had  gained  the  victory.  "  I  will 
complete  the  sacrifice,"  he  boasted  to  himself, 


The  Moii/cs  Wedding,  121 

and  will  stand  by  Germano  during  his 
wooing.  On  the  topmost  stair  he  invoked 
all  the  Saints,  especially  St.  Francis  the 
master  of  self-conquest.  He  clutched  his 
breast,  and  believed  by  heavenly  aid,  that, 
strong  as  Hercules,  he  had  strangled  the 
serpents.  But  the  Saint,  with  the  four 
stigmas,  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  faithless 
disciple,  who  had    forsworn  rope  and  cowl. 

Germano,  in  the  meantime,  was  sketching 
out  his  speech,  but  could  get  no  farther 
than  the  two  arguments  which  dawned  upon 
him  at  the  outset.  He  was,  however,  full  of 
splendid  courage,  had  often  addressed  his 
Germans,  before  a  cavalry  encounter  and 
would  not  now  allow  himself  to  be  daunted  by 
a  maiden.  Only  this  waiting  was  unbearable. 
He  clanked  his  sword. 

Antiope  started,  looked  up,  rose  quickly  and 
stood  with  her  back  toward  the  window,  turn- 
ing a  face  full  of  wonder  and  sadness  upon 
the  two  men  who  were  bowing  before  her. 

"  Be  comforted  Antiope  Canossa,"  said 
Germano,  addressing  her.  "  I  bring  with 
me  as  legal  witness  this  man  Astorre  Vice- 
domini,  whom  they  call  the  monk,  the  spouse 


J 


122  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

of  my  sister  Diana ;  I  have  come  to  ask  you, 
as  you  are  without  a  father,  and  with  such  a 
mother,  to  give  yourself  to  me  as  my  wife. 
My  sister  has  forgotten  her  true  self  in  her 
treatment  of  you,"  —  he  would  not  use  a 
stronger  term,  and  thus  compromise  Diana, 
whom  he  revered — "and  I,  her  brother,  am 
here  to  offer  restitution  for  the  wrong  my 
sister  has  done.  Diana  with  Astorre,  you 
with  me ;  by  this  means  will  you  two 
women  be  brought  together  again,  and  per- 
suaded to  join  hands  in  loving  friendship." 

The  sensitive  spirit  of  the  monk  was 
stung  by  this  rude  speech,  which  placed  the 
aggressor  on  equal  footing  with  the  aggrieved 
one,  or  was  it  a  viper  writhing  in  his  breast } 
He  whispered  to  the  soldier,  "  Germano,  one 
does  not  woo  in  this  way." 

His  companion  heard  it,  and  at  the  same 
time  receiving  no  response  from  Antiope, 
lost  his  temper.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  be 
more  gentle,  yet  spoke  even  more  brusquely 
than  at  first,  "  without  a  father  and  having 
such  a  mother,"  he  repeated,  "you  need  a 
manly  protector.  You  might  have  learned 
this  to-day,  Signorina.     You  cannot  wish  to 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  12 j 

be  a  second  time  mortified  and  abused  before 
all  Padua.  Give  yourself  to  me,  as  you  are, 
and  I  will  protect  you  from  the  crown  of 
your  head  to  the  soles  of  your  feet." 

Germano  was  thinking  of  his  armor. 

Astorre  found  this  proposal  revolting.  He 
thought  Germano  treated  Antiope  as  if  she 
were  his  battle-prize,  or  did  a  snake  hiss 
once  more  in  his  breast }  "  This  is  not  the 
way  to  woo,  Germano,"  he  gasped.  The 
soldier  turned  and  replied,  "  If  you  under- 
stand it  better,  woo  for  me  brother-in-law," 
and  he  stept  aside  to  give    him    his    place. 

Then  Astorre  approached  and,  bending  his 
knee,  raised  his  hands  w^ith  the  palms  clasped 
while  with  wistful  face  he  gazed  at  the 
delicate  head  on  the  pale  gold  background. 
Does  Love  find  words  ?  Silence  seemed  to 
fill  the  darkening  room. 

Finally  Antiope  whispered  "  For  whom  dost 
thou  woo,  Astorre  }  "  "  For  this  man  here, 
for  my  brother  Germano,"  came  from  his 
pale  lips.  Then  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

Germano  lost  all  patience.  "  I  shall  speak 
plainly  with   her,"  he   burst  out.     "  In    two 


/ 


12^  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

words,  Antiope  Canossa,  will  you  be  my  wife 
or  not  ? " 

Antiope  moved  her  little  head  gently  and 
softly,  but  it  was  in  distinct  refusal. 

"  Well,  I  have  my  answer  "  said  Germano, 
drily,  "  Come  brother-in-law,"  and  he  quitted 
the  hall  with  as  firm  a  step  as  he  had  entered 
it.     The  monk,  however,  did  not  follow  him. 

Astorre  remained  in  his  supplicating 
attitude,  then,  trembling,  seized  Antiope's 
quivering  hands  and  drew  them  away  from 
her  face.  Which  mouth  sought  the  other  I 
know  not,  for  it  had  become  perfectly  dark 
in  the  room;  it  was  so  still  also  that  if  their 
ears  had  not  been  filled  with  sounds  of  rap- 
turous joy  the  lovers  might  have  heard  the 
prayers  murmured  in  an  adjoining  apartment. 
Next  to  Antiope's  room,  though  some  steps 
below  it,  was  the  home  chapel,  and  on  the 
morrow  the  third  anniversary  of  the  death  of 
Count  Canossa  was  there  to  be  solemnized. 
Immediately  after  the  city  bells  tolled  the 
hour  of  midnight,  masses  for  his  soul  were  to 
be  read  in  presence  of  the  widov/  and 
orphaned  child.  The  priest  was  already  on 
the  spot  waiting  for  his  assistants. 


The  Monk's  Wedding.         '     12^ 

As  little  as  the  subterranean  murmur  did 
they  hear  the  shuffling  of  Madonna  Olympia's 
slippers,  who  was  seeking  her  daughter  and 
now  by  the  scant  light  of  the  house-lantern, 
which  she  bore  in  her  hand,  was  quietly  and 
earnestly  \vatchino^  the  lovers.  That  the 
boldest  lie  of  an  extravagant  imagination 
had  become  a  fact  before  her  eyes,  in  these 
tenderly  entwined  forms,  did  not  astonish 
Madonna  Olympia,  nor  on  the  other  hand 
did  she  feel  any  revenge  toward  Diana. 
She  was  not  revelling  in  the  bitter  pangs 
now  in  store  for  the  haughty  Pizziguerra. 
Her  simple  motherly  joy  at  seeing  her  child 
justly  valued  and  loved  overpowered  every 
other  emotion. 

When  at  last,  struck  by  a  sharp  beam  from 
her  lantern,  the  two  looked  up  surprised, 
she  asked  in  a  tender  natural  voice,  "  Astorre 
Vicedomini,  do  you  love  Antiope  Canossa.f'" 

"  Beyond  all  else,"  w^as  his  reply.  "  And 
will  defend  her  t  "  "  Against  a  world,"  he 
cried  boldly.  "  That  is  right,"  she  said 
graciously,  "  but  you  mean  it  honestly,  do 
you  not.^  You  will  not  disown  her,  as  you 
have  done  Diana  .^^     You  are  not  fooling  me  ! 


120  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

You  will  not  make  a  poor  distracted  creature, 
as  they  call  me,  more  unhappy  ?  You  will 
not  leave  my  little  girl  again  to  be  disgraced  ? 
You  will  not  seek  for  excuses  or  delays  ? 
You  will  give  certainty  to  my  eyes  and  like 
brave  knis^ht  and  o^ood  Christian  lead  her  at 
once  to  the  altar.  Nor  have  you  far  to  go, 
for  a  priest  (do  you  hear  that  murmur  ?)  is 
kneeling  at  tliis  moment  in  the  chapel  down 
there." 

And  she  opened  a  low  door  behind  which 
a  few  steep  stairs  led  down  into  the  sanctuary. 
Astorre  turned  his  head ;  under  the  rough 
vault  before  a  small  altar,  by  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  candles,  a  bare-footed  monk 
was  praying,  who  in  age  and  stature  re- 
minded him  of  himself,  and  who  also  wore 
the  rope  and  cowl  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis. 

I  believe  that  this  bare-footed  friar  must 
have  been  sent  by  Providence  to  kneel  and 
pray  here  exactly  at  this  hour  in  order  to 
warn  and  frighten  Astorre  for  the  last  time, 
but  in  his  burning  veins  the  medicine  turned 
to  poison.  At  sight  of  this  representative  of 
'J  his  former  life  a  spirit  of  defiance  and  a 
determination  to  free  himself  from  rules  and 
restrictions  took  possession  of  him. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  12^ 

"  At  one  leap  I  set  myself  free  from  my 
first  vow,"  he  said,  derisively,  "  and  saw  the 
barriers  fall  beneath  me,  why  not  do  so  with 
the  second  ?  My  saints  have  not  sustained 
me  in  my  hour  of  trial,  perhaps  they  will  save 
and  defend  the  sinner ;  "  and  the  bewildered 
man,  clasping  Antiope  in  his  arms,  bore 
rather  than  led  her  down  the  steps. 

Madonna  Olympia,  who  after  *a  brief  inter- 
val of  reason  relapsed  into  madness,  had 
slammed  the  heavy  door  behind  the  monk 
and  her  child,  as  if  it  were  a  trap  in  which 
to  catch  her  prey,  and  was  now  stopping 
herself  to  listen  at  the  key-hole. 

What  she  saw  no  one  knows."  It  was  said 
later  that  Astorre,  with  drawn  sword,  had 
threatened  and  overpowered  the  Franciscan. 
This  is  impossible,  for  Astorre  never  girded 
on  a  sword  in  his  life.  It  may  be  nearer 
true,  sad  to  say,  that  the  monk  was  corrupt 
and  that  the  purse  Astorre  took  with  him 
when  he  went  to  buy  the  wedding-ring  for 
Diana  wandered  into  the  pocket  of  the 
cowled  brother. 

But  that  at  first  the  priest  refused,  that 
the  two  monks  wrestled  with  one  another,  and 


128  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

that  the  ponderous  vault  hid  a  direful  scene, 
this  I  read  in  the  convulsed  and  terrified  face 
of  the  listener.  Donna  Olympia  understood 
that  a  crime  of  some  sort  was  being  com- 
mitted and  that  she,  as  the  inciter  and 
accomplice  of  the  same,  had  exposed  herself 
to  the  power  of  the  law,  and  the  revenge  of 
the  woman  who  was  betrayed.  Being  al- 
ready overwrought  by  the  return  of  the  day 
on  which  her  husband  had  been  beheaded, 
she  imagined  that  her  own  crazy  head  was 
likewise  doomed  to  the  block.  She  fancied 
she  heard  the  step  of  Ezzelin  approaching 
and  fled  screaming  "  Help  !    Murder !  " 

The  distracted  woman  rushed  to  the 
entrance  hall  where  a  window  looked  out 
upon  the  narrow  inner  court.  "  My  mule ! 
My  chair ! "  she  cried  in  the  same  breath, 
and  her  servants,  laughing  at  the  double 
command,  since  the  mule  was  for  the 
country  and  the  chair  for  the  town,  came 
slowly  and  leisurely  out  of  a  corner,  where 
they  had  been  drinking  and  gambling  by  the 
light  of  one  poor  lantern.  An  old  groom 
who  alone  remained  faithful  to  his  unhappy 
mistress  saddled    two  mules   and    led    them 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  12g 

through  the  gate  up  to  the  vestibule  of  the 
palace,  which  opened  upon  a  little  street. 
He  had  many  a  time  before  accompanied 
Donna  Olympia  on  some  crazy  errand.  The 
others  followed  with  the  chair,  laughing  and 
cracking  jokes. 

Hurrying  down  the  steps  the  madwoman 
ran  against  Ascanio,  who,  uneasy  at  hearing 
no  further  tidings,  had  come  in  person  to 
find  out  what  was  going  on. 

"  Has  anything  happened  to  Signora.'^  "  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  a  misfortune,"  she  croaked  hoarsely, 
like  a  flying  raven,  and  springing  upon  her 
beast  spurred  it  with  crazy  heels  and  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness. 

Ascanio  groped  his  way  through  the  dark 
chambers  until  he  reached  Antiope's  room, 
which  was  still  lighted  by  the  lamp  Madonna 
Olympia  had  left  standing  there.  As  he 
looked  around,  the  door  of  the  house-chapel 
opened,  and  two  happy  spirits  ascended 
from  the  depths.  The  strong-hearted  man 
beean  to  tremble.  "  Astorre,  hast  thou 
married  her  1 "  he  asked.  The  fatal  word  as 
it    echoed  and  re-echoed   through   the  lofty 


1^0  The  MonMs  Weddmg. 

vault  sounded  like  the  last  trump.  "  And 
hast  Diana's  ring  on  thy  finger  ?  " 

Astorre  wrenched  it  off  and  flung  it 
away. 

Ascanio  flew  to  the  open  window  through 
which  the  ring  had  vanished.  "  It  has  fallen 
into  a  crevice  between  the  stones,"  said  some 
one  from  the  street  below.  Ascanio  recog- 
nized turbans  and  helmets.  They  were  the 
governor's  body-guard  who  had  begun  their 
nightly  round. 

"  One  word  with  you  Abu  Mahommed," 
cried  he,  quickly  resolved,  to  a  white-haired 
old  man  who  politely  replied,  "  Thy  wish  is 
my  command  !  "  and  with  two  other  Saracens 
instantly  disappeared  in  the  gate-way  to  the 
palace. 

Abu  Mahommed  al  Tabib  not  only 
watched  over  the  safety  of  the  streets  but 
likewise  had  entrance  into  all  the  houses  in 
order  to  take  under  custody  traitors  to  the 
Empire,  or  those  whom  the  Governor  re- 
garded as  such.  Emperor  Frederic  had  sent 
him  as  a  present  to  his  son-in-law  the  Tyrant, 
that  he  mio^ht  organize  for  him  a  Saracen 
body-guard,  and   he   had   remained    as    their 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ijr 

chief  in  Padua.  Abu  Mahommed  had  a 
fine  presence  and  winning  manners.  He 
sympathized  with  the  grief  of  a  family  from 
which  he  was  obHged  to  take  one  of  its 
members  to  the  prison,  or  the  block,  and 
comforted  the  afflicted,  in  his  broken  Italian, 
by  quoting  proverbs  from  the  Arab  poets. 
I  suspect  that  he  owed  his  nickname,  "  al 
Tabib  "  which  means  "  the  physician,"  even 
if  -he  may  have  possessed  some  chirurgical 
knowledge,  first  and  foremost  to  certain 
ways  that  reminded  one  of  a  kind  physician ; 
encouraging  gestures,  soothing  words,  as  for 
example,  "  it  does  not  hurt,"  "  it  is  quickly 
over,"  with  vdiich  the  disciples  of  Galen  are 
accustomed  to  preface  painful  operations. 
In  short,  Abu  Mahommed  handled  his 
tragical  duty  with  tenderness  and,  at  the  time 
of  my  story,  was  far  from  being  a  hated  person- 
ality in  Padua,  despite  his  severe  and  bitter 
office.  Later  when  the  tyrant  found  a  pleas- 
ure in  torturing  the  bodies  of  men  (a  thing 
which  you  cannot  believe,  Cangrande),  Abu 
Mahommed  left  him  and  returned  to  his 
kind-hearted  Emperor. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  chamber  Abu 


1^2  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

Mahommed  motioned  to  his  three  attendants 
to  stop.  The  German  who  bore  the  torch,  a 
defiant-looking  fellow,  did  not  wait  long 
however.  To-day,  at  the  vesper  hour  he  had 
accompanied  Germano  to  the  palace  of  the 
Vicedomini  and  the  latter  had  said  to  him> 
laughingly,  "  Leave  me  now,  I  am  going  to 
espouse  my  dear  sister  Diana  to  the  monk." 
The  German  knew  his  commander's  sister 
and  had  a  sort  of  quiet  admiration  for  her 
with  her  stately  figure,  and  honest  eyes. 
When  now  he  saw  the  monk,  by  whose  side 
he  rode  at  mid-day,  hand  in  hand  with  a 
delicate  little  woman,  who  compared  with  the 
magnificent  stature  of  Diana,  seemed  like  a 
doll,  he  suspected  breach  of  faith,  flung  his 
burning  torch  angrily  upon  the  stone  floor, 
from  which  one  of  the  Saracens  carefully 
picked  it  up,  and  hurried  off  to  acquaint 
Germano  with  the  monk's  treason. 

Ascanio,  divining  the  German's  intention, 
begged  Abu  Mahommed  to  call  him  back, 
but  he  refused.  "  He  would  not  obey,"  he 
said  meekly,  "  and  he  is  quite  capable  of 
slaughtering  two  or  three  of  my  attendants. 
In  what  other  way  can  I  serve  you,  Signor  1 


The  Monk^s  Wedding,  ijj 

Shall  I  imprison  these  blushing  young 
people  ?  " 

"Astorre,  they  will  separate  us,"  shrieked 
Antiope,  and  sought  refuge  in  the  arms  of 
the  monk.  The  crime  at  the  altar,  although 
committed  with  a  guileless  soul,  had  robbed 
her  of  her  natural  courage.  The  monk  on 
the  other  hand,  emboldened  and  inspired  by 
his  guilty  act,  took  one  step  toward  the 
Saracen,  and  snatched  his  sword  from  its 
sheath.  "  Carefully,  boy,  you  might  cut 
yourself ! "  said  Abu  Mahommed  good- 
naturedly. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  Abu,"  explained  Ascanio, 
"  this  frantic  man  is  my  friend,  and  was  for 
many  years  the  monk  Astorre,  whom  you 
surely  must  have  seen  in  the  streets  of 
Padua.  His  own  father  cheated  him  out  of 
his  cloister  vows  and  betrothed  him  to  a 
woman  he  did  not  love.  A  few  hours  ago 
he  exchanged  rings  with  her,  and  now,  as 
you  see  him  here,  he  is  the  husband  of 
another." 

"  Fate,"  interposed  the  Saracen  gently. 

"  And  the  betrayed  one "  continued  As- 
canio,   "  is     Diana     Pizziguerra,    Germano's 


k 


jj^  The  Monk's  Wedduig. 

sister.  You  know  Germano ;  he  is  trustful 
and  confiding  by  nature,  but  when  he  finds 
that  he  has  been  deceived,  the  blood  rushes 
to  his  eyes  and  he  kills." 

"  Naturally,"  assented  Abu  Mahommed, 
"  He  is  on  his  mother's  side  a  German,  and 
they  are  children  of  the  truth." 

"  Advise  me,  Saracen !  I  know  of  but 
one  recourse,  perhaps  a  means  of  salvation, 
which  is  to  bring  the  case  before  the  Gover- 
nor. Ezzelin  shall  judge.  Meanwhile,  let 
your  people  keep  guard  over  the  monk  in 
his  own  strong  castle.  I  hasten  to  my  uncle. 
But  you,  Abu  Mahommed,  take  this  lady  to 
the  Countess  Cunizza,  sister  of  the  governor, 
the  pious  and  much-beloved  Domina,  who 
for  several  weeks  has  had  her  court  here. 
Take  the  pretty  sinner,  I  trust  her  to  your 
gray  hair! " 

''You  may,"  said  Mahommed,  as  if  to 
reassure  him. 

At  this  Antiope  clung  to  the  monk, 
crying  even  more  piteously  than  at  first. 
"  They  will  separate  me  from  you.  Do  not 
leave  me  Astorre,  not  for  an  hour,  not  for  a 
moment,  or  I  shall  die  ! "  The  monk  lifted 
his  sword. 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  ijß 

Ascanio,  who  abhorred  all  violence,  turned 
appealingly  to  the  Saracen.  With  fatherly 
eyes  the  old  man  gazed  at  the  lovers.  "  Oh 
let  the  poor  shades  cling  together,"  he  said 
in  a  soft  tone,  "  do  not  begrudge  the  poor 
loving  butterflies  this  one  hour,"  —  either  he' 
was  a  philosopher  and  held  life  as  an  empty 
show,  or  he  suspected  that  they  would  indeed 
be  shades  on  the  morrow  through  the  con- 
demnation of  Ezzelin. 

Ascanio,  who  never  doubted  the  substan- 
tial reality  of  things,  was  fully  alive  to  the 
second  meaning,  and,  kind  and  tender  hearted 
fellow  as  he  was,  hesitated  to  tear  the  lov- 
ing ones  asunder. 

"  Astorre,"  he  asked,  "  do  you  kno\v  me  }  " 

"You  were  my  friend,"  answered  the 
monk. 

"  And  am  so  still,  you  have  no  truer." 

"  Oh,  do  not  separate  me  from  her,"  said 
the  monk,  in  such  an  imploring  tone  that 
Ascanio  could  not  withstand  it. 

"  Well,  then,  remain  together  until  you 
must  appear  before  your  judge."  He  then 
whispered  something  to  Abu  Mahommed. 

.The  Saracen  approached    the  monk    and 


u 


Ij6  The  Mo7tk*s  Wedding, 

gently  took  the  sword  away  from  him, 
loosening  his  grasp  finger  by  finger,  and 
dropped  it  back  into  its  scabbard.  Then  he 
stepped  to  the  window  and  beckoned  to  his 
troop.  The  Saracens  immediately  took  pos- 
session of  Madonna  Olympia's  chair  wdiich 
had  been  left  in  the  vestibule  and  brought  it 
to  the  door  for  Antiope. 

Through  a  dark  narrow  court  the  hurried 
procession  now  moved  onward.  Antiope 
first,  borne  by  four  Saracens,  at  her  side  the 
monk  and  Ascanio,  then  the  whole'  tu-^aned 
band,  Abu  Mahommed  bringing  up  the  rear. 

They  pursued  their  way  across  a  small 
square,  and  passed  a  dimly-lighted  church 
and  as  they  were  entering  a  dark  lane  on 
the  other  side  of  it,  ran  violently  against  a 
procession  followed  by  an  enormous  crowd 
of  people.  A  tumult  arose.  "  Room  for 
the  Sposina,"  the  people  cried.  Choir-boys 
brought  out  of  the  church  long  candles, 
whose  flickering  flames  they  protected  with 
their  hands.  The  dim  yellow  light  revealed 
a  litter  and  a  bier.  The  Sposina  was  a 
young  plebeian  bride  who  had  died  suddenly ; 
they  were  bearing  her  corpse  to  the  grave. 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  ijy 

Antiope  sprang  from  her  chair,  and  the 
assembled  people  recognized  the  monk,  who 
threw  his  arms  protectingly  around  her, 
while  they  knew  he  had  been  betrothed  this 
very  day  to  Diana  Pizziguerra.  Abu  Ma- 
hommed,  however,  commanded  order,  and  it 
was  soon  restored,  so  that  without  further 
adventure  they  reached  the  palace. 

Astorre  and  Antiope  were  received  by  the 
servants  with  looks  of  astonishment.  They 
quickly  entered  the  door-way  and  vanished 
without  bidding  farewell  even  to  Abu  Ma- 
hommed  and  Ascanio.  The  latter  wrapt 
himself  in  his  cloak,  and  accompanied  the 
Saracen  a  few  steps  further,  as  he  made  his 
nightly  round  of  the  castle  where  he  was  on 
guard,  counting  its  gates,  and  measuring 
with  his  eyes  the  height  of  the  walls. 

"  An  eventful  day,"  said  Ascanio.  "  A 
blessed  night,"  answered  the  Saracen  looking 
at  the  star-sown  heavens. 

The  eternal  lights,  whether  ruling  human 
fate  or  not,  moved  on  according  to  their  own 
silent  laws,  until  Aurora  with  flaming  torch 
kindled  a  new  day,  the  last  Astorre  and 
Antiope  were  ever  to  see. 


Ij8  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

In  the  early  morning  hour,  the  tyrant  and 
his  nephew  looked  down  through  a  little 
round  window  in  his  tower  upon  the  square 
beneath.  It  was  filled  with  an  excited  mul- 
titude, and  the  busy  hum  of  voices  rose  like 
the  surge  of  ocean-billows. 

The  news  of  the  encounter  of  Antiope's 
chair  with  the  bier  yesterday  evening,  and 
the  excitement  it  caused  had  flown  through 
the  city  with  the  speed  of  lightning.  All 
heads,  waking  or  dreaming,  were  occupied 
with  nothing  but  the  monk  and  his  wedding ; 
—  not  only  had  he  sacreligiously  broken  his 
vows  to  heaven,  but  now  his  earthly  ones  as 
well ;  he  had  betrayed  his  bride,  flung  his  ring 
away,  and  with  rashly-kindled  passion  wooed 
another,  a  fifteen  year  old  maiden,  just 
budding  into  life.  The  tyrant,  who  would 
countenance  no  illegal  proceedings,  ordered 
the  house,  in  which  the  two  sinners  were 
concealed,  to  be  guarded  by  his  Saracens ;  he 
meant  to-day  to  bring  to  judgment  the  mis- 
deeds of  the  two  aristocrats  ;  —  for  the  young 
Antiope  was  a  Canossa ;  —  to  restore  the 
chaste  Diana  to  her  rightful  position,  and, 
lest  the  virtue  of   his  people  should  suffer 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  ijg 

through  the  bad  example  of  their  nobles,  to 
throw  the  bloody  heads  of  the  misdoers  out 
of  the  window. 

The  tyrant,  while  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
seething  crowd  below,  listened  to  Ascanio's 
account  of  what  happened  yesterday.  The 
love  of  the  two  young  people  did  not  move 
him  at  all,  but  the  incident  of  the  ring 
struck  him  as  a  new  manifestation  of  Fate« 
"  I  blame  you  for  not  having  torn  them  apart 
at  once.  I  approve  your  having  put  them 
under  arrest.  The  betrothal  with  Diana  is 
legal.  The  Sacrament,  forced  by  the  sword, 
or  bought  with  the  purse,  is  null  and  void. 
The  priest  who  allowed  himself  to  be  fright- 
ened or  bribed,  deserves  the  gallows,  and  if 
caught  will  swing.  Once  more,  why  did  not 
you  step  between  the  untutored  boy  and  the 
child  ?  Why  did  you  not  wrench  an  ecstatic 
fool  out  of  the  arms  of  a  poor  bewildered 
maiden  ?  You  gave  her  to  him  !  Now  they 
are  man  and  wife." 

Ascanio,  who,  after  a  good  night's  sleep 
had  regained  his  light-heartedness,  concealed 
a  smile.  "  Ha,  Epicurean ! "  said  Ezzelin 
reproachfully.     But  in    a  coaxing  tone  As- 


1^0  The  Monk's  Wedding. 

canio  answered,  "  It  is  done,  my  illustrious 
uncle,  and  now  if  you  will  only  take  the  case 
into  your  powerful  hands  everything  will  be 
righted.  I  have  summoned  both  parties. 
If  you  have  the  will,  Ezzelin,  by  your  firm 
judicious  hand  this  knot  is  easily  untied. 
Love  is  a  spendthrift ;  and  avarice  knows  not 
honor.  The  enamoured  monk  will  gladly 
fling  to  the  base  miser,  old  Pizziguerra,  what- 
ever sum  of  money  he  desires.  Germano 
will  draw  his  sword ;  no  doubt,  you  must  bid 
him  thrust  it  back  into  its  scabbard.  He  is 
your  man!  He  will  gnash  his  teeth  but  he 
will  obey." 

"  I  ask  myself,"  said  Ezzelin,  "  whether  I 
do  right  to  defend  the  monk  from  the 
sword  of  Germano.  Is  Astorre  to  be  allowed 
to  live  ?  Can  he  live,  having  flung  aside  the 
sandal  of  the  monk,  and  trodden  the  newly- 
donned  shoe  of  the  knight  in  the  mire  re- 
solving the  Cantus  firmus  of  the  monastery 
into  the  yell  of  a  vulgar  street-song?  I 
may  do  my  best  to  lengthen  out  the  exist- 
ence of  this  vacillating,  worthless  man,  but 
\/ can  I  ward  off  his  fate?  If  Astorre  is  des- 
tined   to   die    by  the    hand   of    Germano   I 


The  Monk's  Wcddmg,  i^r 

may  command  the  latter  to  lower  his  sword, 
yet  the  former  will  run  upon  it.  I  know 
this ;  I  have  experienced  it ;  "  and  he  fell  to 
brooding. 

Ascanio  turned  his  face  ax'C^ay.  He  knew 
a  cruel  history, 

The  tyrant  had  once  besieged  and  taken 
a  castle  wehere  the  rebels,  w^io  had  held 
out  against  him,  were  all  condemned  to  the 
sword.  One  of  the  soldiers  was  appointed 
to  execute  this  command.  Among  the  first 
to  receive  the  death-stroke  knelt  a  beautiful 
boy,  whose  features  attracted  the  tyrant. 
Ezzelin  detected  in  them  a  resemblance  to 
his  own,  and  inquired  of  the  youth  his  name 
and  origin.  He  proved  to  be  the  son  of  a 
woman  whom  Ezzelin  had  loved  and  wronged 
years  before.  He  pardoned  the  condemned. 
The  boy,  excited,  urged  on  by  his  own  curi- 
osity, and  perhaps  by  the  envious  taunts  of 
those  who  had  lost  their  sons  or  relations  by 
this  bloody  sentence,  did  not  rest  until  he 
had  solved  the  mystery  of  his  preference. 
He  is  said  to  have  drawn  the  dagger 
against  his  own  mother  and  thus  obliged  her 
to  confess    the    wretched    secret.     The   dis- 


1^2  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

closure  of  his  illegitimacy  poisoned  his 
young  soul.  He  conspired  anew  against  the 
tyrant,  fell  upon  him  in  the  street,  and  was 
cut  down  by  the  same  soldier  who  had  before 
lifted  the  sword  to  kill  him,  and  now  hap- 
pened to  be  the  first  to  come  to  Ezzelin's 
rescue. 

Ezzelin,  whilst  reflecting  on  the  fate  of 
his  son,  dropped  his  head  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  right  hand.  Then  he  raised  it 
slowly  and  asked,  "  But  what  is  to  become  of 
Diana  .^ " 

Ascanio  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Diana 
was  born  under  an  evil  star,"  he  said.  "  She 
has  had  to  resign  two  husbands,  one  to  the 
Brenta,  the  other  to  a  more  lovely  woman ; 
and  added  to  all  this  her  miserly  father ! 
She  must  retire  into  a  convent,  —  what  else 
remains  for  her }  " 

At  this  moment  a  tumult  arose  in  the 
square  below,  —  murmurs,  threats,  curses 
were  heard  on  all  sides ;  irritated  individuals 
shouted  and  yelled,  but  just  as  the  single 
voices  seemed  about  to  unite  in  the  one 
hideous  cry,  "  Death  to  the  Monk ! "  the 
fury  of  the  mob  changed  singularly,  and  only 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  /^j 

a  long-drawn  note  of  admiration  and  amaze- 
ment, and  "  Ah  !  Ah  !  how  beautiful  she  is  !  " 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Through  the 
window  the  tyrant  and  Ascanio  could 
comfortably  watch  this  scene.  Saracens  on 
slender  Arab  steeds  surrounded  the  monk 
Astorre,  and  his  young  wife,  both  borne 
along  by  mules.  The  new  Vicedomini  rode 
veiled,  but  when  the  thousand  hands  of  the 
people  were  raised  in  violence  to  attack  the 
monk,  her  husband,  she  threw  her  arms  pas- 
sionately around  him.  The  hasty  movement 
tore  her  veil.  It  was  not  alone  the  charm  1 
of  her  face,  nor  the  youthful  beauty  of  her 
figure,  which  had  disarmed  the  crowd  ;  but 
the  full  play  of  her  spirit,  the  unreserved 
feeling,  the  living  inspiration,  which  trans- 
ported every  one,  as  it  had  the  monk  the 
day  before,  who  now  moved  on  like  a  triumph- 
ant victor  with  his  spoils,  fearing  nothing,  and 
with  the  air  of  one  who  bore  a  charmed  life._^ 

Ezzelin  observed  this  conquest  of  beauty 
almost  with  contempt,  but  turned  with 
interest  toward  a  second  procession  which 
was  entering  the  square  from  the  other  side. 
Three  nobles,  accompanied  like  Astorre,  by 


144  '^^^  Monk's  Wedding, 

a  large  number  of  people,  were  making  their 
way  through  the  crowd.  Conspicuous  among 
them  rose  the  snow-white  head  of  the  old 
Pizziguerra,  on  his  left  Germano.  The 
wrath  of  the  soldier-knight  yesterday  had 
been  terrible,  when  his  German  brought  him 
the  news  of  Astorre's  treachery.  He  w^as 
rushing  forward  to  take  instant  revenge 
when  he  was  met  and  restrained  by  the 
Saracen  who  brought  him  the  summons  to 
appear  at  the  palace  of  the  governor  early  on 
the  following  morning.  He  was  then  obliged 
to  tell  his  sister  of  the  monk's  crime,  which 
he  would  have  preferred  to  conceal  from  her 
until  after  he  had  avenged  the  wrong.  She 
had  received  the  tidings  with  perfect  com- 
posure, and  now  rode  on  her  father's  right, 
the  same  as  ever,  save  that  her  stately  head 
was  bowed  one  shade  lower  by  the  heavy 
thought  it  bore. 

The  crowd  that  a  minute  ago  would  have 
proclaimed  with  a  sort  of  wrathful  triumph 
the  coming  of  the  injured  one  to  claim  her 
rights,  now,  dazzled  by  the  beauty  of  Antiope, 
comprehending,  but  at  the  same  time  forgiv- 
ing  the   treachery  of    the   monk,  contented 


The  Mo7ik's  Wedding.  i^f^ 

themselves  with  sympathetic  murmurs,  such 
as  —  "the  poor  soul,  always  unfortunate, 
always  sacrificed ! " 

The  five  now  entered  the  bare  hall  where 
the  tyrant  was  sitting  in  a  chair  raised  a  few 
steps  above  the  ground.  The  contending 
parties  respectfully  took  their  places  oppo- 
site each  other;  here  Pizziguerra  and  a 
little  at  one  side  the  grand  form  of  Diana, 
there  the  monk  and  Antiope  with  hands 
locked  together.  Ascanio  leaned  against 
the  high  chair  of  the  tyrant,  as  if  he  would 
take  an  impartial  position  between  his  two 
old  comrades. 

"  Signors,"  began  Ezzelin,  "  I  shall  not 
treat  your  case  as  a  state  affair,  where  breach 
of  faith  is  treason,  and  this  treason  a  capital 
offense,  but  simply  as  a  family  matter.  In 
fact  the  Pizziguerra,  the  Vicedomini  and  the 
Canossa  are  of  as  noble  blood  as  myself,  only 
the  favor  of  his  august  majesty  has  made  me 
governor  over  these  your  lands."  Ezzelin 
bowed  his. head  in  recognition  of  the  higher 
power;  he  could  not  uncover  it,  for  he  was 
accustomed  to  go  bare-headed  through  all 
kinds    of    wind    and    weather,  except   when 


1^6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

forced  to  don  the  warrior's  helmet.  "  Thus 
we  twelve  noble  families  form  a  great  house- 
hold to  which  I  belong  in  virtue  of  one  of 
my  maternal  ancestors.  But  we  are  sadly 
reduced  in  numbers  through  the  blind  folly 
and  wicked  mutiny  of  some  members  against 
the  highest  worldly  authority.  If  you  sym- 
pathize with  me  we  shall  spare  and  preserve 
the  few  still  belonging  to  us.  On  this 
ground  I  restrain  the  revenge  of  the  Pizzi- 
guerra  against  Astorre  Vicedomini,  although 
I  call  it  in  its  innermost  nature  a  just  one. 
If  you  "  and  he  turned  to  the  three  Pizzi- 
guerra,  "  do  not  approve  of  my  leniency, 
consider  this  one  thing.  I,  Ezzelin  da 
Romano,  am  the  first  and  therefore  the  chief 
cause  of  all  this  misfortune.  Had  I  not  on 
a  certain  day,  and  at  a  certain  hour,  ridden 
along  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  Diana  would 
now  be  properly  married,  and  this  man  still 
murmuring  his  breviary.  Had  I  not  ordered 
my  Germans  to  muster  on  a  certain  day  and 
at  a  certain  hour  Germano  would  not  have 
given  the  monk  such  an  untimely  ride,  and 
the  ring  on  the  hand  of  this  lady  beside  him, 
rolled  to  her  by  his  evil  demon" — ("by  my 


The  Monk^s  Wedding.  i^j 

good  genius  "  joyfully  interposed  the  monk) 
would  have  been  drawn  off  her  finster  as^ain 
Therefore  Signors,  help  me  to  unravel  and 
smooth  out  this  intricate  matter,  for,  if  you  in- 
sist on  stern  justice  I  must  first  and  foremost 
condemn  myself. 

This  extraordinary  speech  did  not  put  the 
old  Pizziguerra  out  of  countenance  and  when 
the  tyrant  turning  to  him  said,  "  My  noble 
lord  you  are  the  complainant,'"  he  replied 
briefly,  "  Eccellenza,  Astorre  Vicedomini  be- 
trothed himself  publicly  and  in  the  regular 
form  to  my  child  Diana,  and  then  without 
Diana's  having  offended  him  in  an)'  way, 
broke  his  engagement.  This  inexcusable? 
illegal,  sacriligious  deed,  weighs  heavily,  and 
demands,  if  not  blood,  which  your  Grace 
does  not  wish  to  shed,  a  heavy  penalt}^"  and 
he  made  the  gestures  of  a  shopkeeper  piling 
weight  upon  weight  into  his  scales. 

"  Without  Diana's  having  offended  him  ?  " 
repeated  the  tyrant.  "It  seems  to  me  she 
did  offend.  Had  she  not  an  insane  woman 
before  her?  Yet  Diana  reviled  and  struck. 
Diana  gives  way  to  violent  passion  when 
she  thinks  her  rights  infringed." 


1^8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

Diana  nodded  and  said,  "  You  speak  the 
truth,  EzzeHn ! " 

"  And  this  it  was,"  continued  the  tyrant, 
"  which  turned  Astorre's  heart  away  from  her, 
he  saw  in  her  a  barbarian." 

"  No,  my  Prince,"  contradicted  the  monk, 
insulting  the  betrayed  one  afresh,  "  I  never 
looked  at  Diana,  I  only  saw  the  sweet  face 
which  received  the  blow,  and  my  whole  soul 
was  moved  to  pity  and  love." 

The  tyrant  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You 
see,  Pizziguerra,"  he  smiled,  "  the  monk  is 
like  a  maiden  who  for  the  first  time  has 
tasted  strong  wine  and  behaves  accordingly. 
But  we  are  old  sober  people ;  we  must  con- 
trive some  settlement  of  this  affair." 

Pizziguerra  answered,  "  Much,  Ezzelin, 
would  I  do  to  please  you,  because  of  your 
great  service,to  Padua.  Yet  can  the  insulted 
honor  of  our  house  be  propitiated  otherwise 
than  with  the  sword  'I "  Thus  speaking 
Diana's  father  made  a  stately  flourish  with 
his  arm  which  somehow  ended  in  a  move- 
ment very  like  that  of  a  man  who  holds  out 
his  hand  to  be  filled. 

"  Astorre,  make  an  offer ! "  said  the  gov- 


The  Monk's  Weddmg.  i^g 

ernor  with  the  double  meaning,  "  either  of 
your  hand,  or  your  money  and  lands." 

"  My  Prince,"  and  the  monk  now  turned 
frankly  and  nobly  to  the  tyrant,  "  if  you  call 
me  unstable,  or  bereft  of  my  senses,  I  cannot 
blame  you,  for  a  powerful  God  whom  I  denied, 
because  I  did  not  suspect  his  existence,  has 
taken  his  revenge  and  completely  over- 
powered me.  Even  now  he  drives  me  like  a 
storm-wind  whirling  my  mantle  over  my 
head.  Must  my  happiness  —  oh,  beggarly 
word !  —  must  the  highest  boon  of  my  life  be 
paid  for  with  my  life  ?  I  accept  it  and  find 
the  price  all  too  low.  But  if  I  may  live,  and 
live  with  her,  I  will  not  haggle,"  and  he 
added  with  a  blissful  smile,  "  take  my  entire 
fortune,  Pizziguerra  ?  " 

"  My  friend,"  pursued  the  tyrant,  "  I  will 
assume  the  guardianship  of  this  spendthrift- 
lover.  Let  me  negotiate  with  you,  Pizzi- 
guerra. You  hear  that  he  has  given  me  full 
power  to  do  so.  What  do  you  say  to  the 
mines  of  the  Vicedomini  ?  " 

The  old  man  preserved  a  decent  silence, 
but  his  eyes  which  were  near  together  glis- 
tened like  two  diamonds. 


1^0  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

*'  Take  my  pearl  fisheries  also,"  cried 
Astorre,  but  Ascanio  came  gliding  down  the 
steps  and  closed  his  mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  Noble  Pizziguerra,  take  the  mines,"  said 
Ezzelin  persuasively,  "  I  know  the  honor  of 
your  house  is  beyond  everything  and  is  not 
to  be  bought  at  any  price,  but  I  know  like- 
wise that  you  are  a  good  Paduan  and  will 
stretch  a  point  for  the  peace  of  your  city." 

The  old  man  remained  obstinately  silent. 

"  Take  the  mine  he  offers,  and  let  him 
keep  his  own  mine  of  joy !  "  urged  Ezzelin, 
who  enjoyed  a  play  upon  words. 

"  The  mines  and  the  fisheries  ?  "  asked  the 
old  man  as  if  hearing  with  difficulty. 

"  The  mines,  I  said,  and  nothing  else. 
They  yield  many  thousand  pounds  annually. 
If  you  should  demand  more,  Pizziguerra,  I 
should  feel  myself  deceived  in  you  and  you 
would  certainly  expose  yourself  to  the  hate- 
ful suspicion  of  chaffering  over  your  honor." 

The  old  miser  was  afraid  of  the  tyrant,  and 
since  he  dared  not  demand  any  more,  gulped 
down  his  vexation  and  extended  to  the  monk 
his  withered  hand.  *'  We  must  have  it  in 
writing,"  he   said,  "  since    life    is    uncertain." 


The  Monk's  Weddijig,  i^i 

He  drew  from  his  girdle-pocket  a  small 
account  book  and  pencil,  scratched  with 
trembling  fingers  a  rough  draft  of  the  title 
deed  and  gave  it  to  the  monk  to  sign.  This 
done,  he  bowed  before  the  governor  and 
because  of  his  feeble  health  begged  to  be 
excused,  although  one  of  the  twelve,  from 
attending  the  monk's  marriage-feast. 

Germano  had  stood  beside  his  father 
burning  with  rage.  Now  he  unfastened  one 
of  his  iron  gloves  and  would  have  flung  it 
into  the  monk's  face  had  not  a  commanding 
gesture  of  the  tyrant's  bidden  him  halt. 

"  Son,  will  you  break  the  public  peace  ?  " 
interposed  the  old  Pizziguerra.  "  My  word 
given,  includes  and  guarantees  yours.  Obey 
or  be  cursed.  I  will  disinherit  you ! "  he 
threatened. 

Germano  laughed.  "  Attend  to  your  own 
dirty  bargains,  father,"  he  replied  contemptu- 
ously. "Yet  surely  you,  Ezzelin,  Lord  of 
Padua,  will  not  hinder  me.  It  is  my  manly 
right  and  a  private  affair.  If  I  refuse  obedi- 
ence to  the  Emperor,  and  to  thee,  his  gover- 
nor, have  me  beheaded :  but  with  your  sense 
of    justice   you   will    not    hinder   me    from 


Tj2  The  Monk's  Weddmg, 

throttling  this  monk  who  has  fooled  and 
deceived  me  and  my  sister.  If  falsehood  is 
to  go  unpunished  who  would  wish  to  live  ? 
This  earth  is  a  place  too  small  for  the  monk 
and  me  to  inhabit  together.  He  will  under- 
stand this  himself  when  he  comes  to  his 
senses." 

"  Germano, '  said  Ezzelin,  "  I  am  thy 
commander-in-chief.  Tomorrow  the  trumpet 
may  sum.mon  us  to  the  battle-field.  Thou 
belongest  not  alone  to  thyself  or  to  thy 
family,  but  to  the  Empire." 

ST'  Germano  made  no  answer.  He  re-fastened 
his  glove.  Then  he  exclaimed,  "  In  old 
times,  among  the  blind  heathen,  there  was 
a  god  who  avenged  breaches  of  faith.  I 
don't  think  this  has  changed  with  the  ring, 
ing  of  church  bells.  To  Him  I  commit  my 
cause !  and   he  ended    by   lifting    his    hands 

j     fervently  to  heaven. 

"  Then  it  is  in  good  hands,"  and  Ezzelin 
smiled.  "This  evening  the  wedding  is  to  be 
celebrated  with  masks  in  the  Vicedomini 
palace,  according  to  custom.  I  give  the 
feast  and  invite  you  Germano  and  Diana. 
Not  in  armor,  Germano,  with  short  sword !  " 


The  Mo7ik^s  Wedding,  ißj 

*' Cruel,"  groaned  the  soldier.  "Come, 
father,  how  can  you  longer  make  a  spectacle 
of  our  disgrace  ?"  And  he  dragged  the  old 
man  away  with  him. 

"  And  you  Diana  ?  "  asked  Ezzelin,  as  he 
saw  that  she  alone  and  the  newly-married 
pair  were  still  before  his  judgement  seat. 
"  Do  you  not  accompany  your  father  and 
brother  ?  "  "  If  you  will  permit  me,"  said 
she,  "  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  this  lady," 
and  overlooking  the  monk,  fastened  her  eyes 
upon  Antiope. 

Antiope,  whose  hand  had  all  this  time 
rested  in  that  of  the  monk,  followed  the 
whole  proceeding  with  deep  interest,  and 
though  a  passive  spectator  evinced  a  series 
of  lively  emotions.  Now  she  blushed  with  a 
young  wife's  first  love,  then  she  turned  pale 
with  a  feeling  of  guilt  as  she  discovered 
under  Ezzelin's  smile  and  gracious  words 
his  real  condemnation  of  them.  One  mo- 
ment she  exulted  like  a  child  escaping 
punishment,  and  the  next  showed  a  dawning 
consciousness  of  her  dignity  as  the  wife  of 
the  new  Vicedomini.  But  when  Diana 
addressed  her  she  cast  a  shy  inimical  look  at 
her  powerful  rival. 


i^^  The  Monk's  Weddijig, 

Diana,  however,  was  not  to  be  turned 
aside.  "See  here  Antiope,  my  finger  bears 
your  husband's  ring;"  she  stretched  it  out, 
"  This  you  must  not  forget.  I  am  not  super- 
stitious as  most  people,  but  in  your  place  I 
confess  it  would  disturb  my  peace  of  mind. 
Deeply  as  you  have  sinned  against  me  I 
will  nevertheless  be  good  and  merciful  to 
you.  According  to  custom  this  evening  your 
marriao^e  is  to  be  celebrated  with  masks.  I 
shall  appear  to  you.  Come  repentant  and 
humbly  to  draw  this  ring  yourself  from  my 
finger." 

Antiope  uttered  a  cry  of  fear  and  clung 
to  her  husband,  where  protected  by  his  arms 
she  said  excitedly,  "  I  am  to  humble  myself, 
what  do  you  bid  me  Astorre  ?  My  honor  is 
thine,  I  am  no  longer  aught  but  thy  prop- 
erty, thy  heart,  thy  breath  of  life,  thy  soul. 
If  thou  allow  or  command  it,  then  —  " 

Astorre  tenderly  soothed  his  wife,  and 
turning  to  Diana  said,  "  She  will  do  it.  May 
her  humility  and  mine  propitiate  thee.  Be 
our  guest  this  evening  and  remain  friendly 
to  my  house."  He  next  addressed  Ezzelin 
respectfully  thanking  him  for  his  judgment 


The  Monk's  Wedding.  755 

and  his  favor,  bowed  and  led  his  wife  away. 
But  upon  the  threshold  he  stopped  an  instant 
to  inquire  of  Diana,  "  In  what  costume  will 
you  appear  among  us  to-night  that  we  may 
recognize  you  and  show  you  honor  ?  " 

She  smiled  contemptuously  and  again 
speaking  to  Antiope,  "  I  shall  come  as  that 
which  I  call  myself  and  which  I  am.  The 
untouched,  the  maidenly,"  she  said  proudly. 
Then  she  repeated,  "  Antiope  remember, 
come  humbly  and  repentant." 

"You  mean  it  honestly,  Diana?  You 
have  no  covert  design  ?  questioned  the 
tyrant  when  the  Pizziguerra  was  left  alone 
with  him. 

"  None,"  she  replied,  disdaining  further 
protestation. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  you,  Diana  1  " 
he  asked.  "  Ezzelin,"  she  answered  bitterly, 
"before  this  thy  judgment-seat,  my  father 
has  bartered  away  our  honor  and  right  to 
revenge  for  a  few  lumps  of  metal.  I  am  not 
worthy  to  have  the  sun  shine  on  me.  The 
cell  alone  remains  for  such  as  I  am  !  "  And 
she  left  the  hall. 

"  Most    excellent    uncle,"    said    Ascanio 


1^6  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

joyfully.  You  have  united  the  happiest  pair 
in  Padua,  and  converted  a  tragic  drama  into 
a  charming  idyl,  with  which  I  shall  enter- 
tain my  children  and  grand-children  at  our 
hearth  fire  when  I  am  a  venerable  old  man." 

"  My  nephew !  composer  of  idyls !  "  said  the 
tyrant  with  a  dash  of  raillery  as  he  stepped  to 
the*  window  to  look  down  upon  the  square 
where  the  crowd  still  lingered  in  feverish 
curiosity.  Ezzelin  had  given  directions  to 
have  those  leaving  the  palace  before  him  let 
out  by  the  back  door. 

•'  Paduans,"  he  said  in  a  powerful  tone, 
(the  multitude  were  silent  as  the  desert)  I 
have  examined  the  matter.  It  was  intricate 
and  there  was  fault  on  both  sides.  I  have 
pardoned  it,  for  I  am  always  inclined  to 
mercy  when  the  majesty  of  the  Empire  is 
not  concerned.  This  evening  the  wedding 
of  Astorre  Vicedomini  and  Antiope  Canossa 
will  be  celebrated,  with  masks.  I,  Ezzelin, 
give  the  feast  and  invite  you  all.  May  you 
enjoy  it.  I  am  the  host.  To  you  belong 
street  and  tavern.  But  let  no  one  enter,  or 
in  any  wise  endanger  the  palace  of  the 
Vicedomini,  else    by    my   hand  —  and    now 


The  Mo7ik's  Wedding.  ißy 

return  each  of  you  quietly  to  his  home  if  you 
love  me." 

An  indistinct  murmur  arose,  it  rippled 
and  ran.  "  How  they  love  you ! "  joked 
Ascanio. 

Dante  paused  for  breath,  then  with  rapid 
sentences  concluded  his  story. 

The  trial  being  over  at  mid-day  the  tyrant 
rode  forth  to  visit  a  remote  castle  which  was 
in  process  of  rebuilding.  He  desired  and 
intended  to  return  to  Padua  early  in  the 
evening  that  he  might  see  Antiope  humili- 
ate herself  before  Diana. 

Contrary  to  all  will  and  foresight,  however, 
he  was  detained.  A  Saracen  came  galloping 
after  him  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle, 
breathless  and  covered  with  dust,  to  deliver 
a  letter  by  the  Emperor's  own  hand  which 
required  immediate  answer.  The  matter 
was  of  importance.  A  short  time  before, 
Ezzelin  had  fallen  upon  an  Imperial  strong- 
hold at  Ferrara,  in  the  night,  the  com- 
mander of  which,  a  Sicilian,  his  keen  eye  sus- 
pected of  being  a  traitor.  Ezzelin  had  taken 
the  citadel  and  put  the  hypocritical  Imperial 
governor  in  chains.     Now  the  Hohenstaufen 


1^8  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

demanded  the  reason  for  this  clever  but  daring 
infringement  on  his  authority.  With  his  left 
hand  pressed  upon  his  thinking  brow  Ezze- 
lin's  right  glided  swiftly  over  the  parchment 
as  his  stylus  went  on  from  first  to  second  and 
from  second  to  third.  He  discussed  radi- 
cally, with  his  illustrious  father-in-law,  the 
aim  and  possibilities  involved  in  a  campaign 
at  that  moment  impending,  or  at  least 
planned.  Thus  the  hours  sped  away  and  it 
was  only  when  he  remounted  his  horse  that 
he  knew  from  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  — 
for  the  stars  were  all  out  in  fullest  brilliancy 
—  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  reach  Padua 
before  midnight.  Leaving  his  retinue  far 
behind,  like  a  spirit  he  flew  oyer  the  nightly 
plain.  But  he  chose  his  way  and  rode 
cautiously  round  a  small  ditch  over  which 
the  bold  horseman  on  any  other  day  would 
have  thought  it  play  to  leap;  he  would  not 
risk  the  chance  of  a  fall  from  the  horse 
which  might  detain  him.  Again  he  spurred 
on  his  steed  and  the  racer  stretched  himself 
out,  but  Padua's  lights  did  not  yet  glimmer 
through  the  darkness. 

Before  the  great  city  castle  of   the  Vice- 


The  Monk's  Weddmg.  i^g 

domini,  even  as  the  twilight  melted  into  the 
dark  of  evening  the  intoxicated  people  had 
assembled.  Scenes  of  wanton,  unbridled 
mirth  alternated  with  more  innocent  sport 
on  this  not  very  large  piazza.  A  wild  pas- 
sionate merriment,  a  species  of  bacchanalian 
hilarity,  seemed  fermenting  in  the  dense 
crowed  to  W'hich  the  youths  from  the  High 
School  added  an  element  of  wit  and  derision. 
The  tumult  was  now  interrupted  by  a  long- 
drawn-out  Cantilene,  or  kind  of  litany,  such 
as  our  country-people  used  to  sing.  It  was 
a  procession  of  peasants,  old  and  young, 
from  one  of  the  numerous  villages  belonging 
to  the  Vicedomini.  These  poor  people, 
who,  in  their  isolation,  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  monk's  return  to  the  w^orld,  but  only 
through  uncertain  rumor  of  the  espousals  of 
the  heir,  had  started  before  sunrise  with  the 
customary  wedding-gifts  and  after  a  long 
day's  travel  over  the  dusty  highway  had  just 
reached  their  destination.  They  held  to- 
gether and  wound  their  way  slowly  through 
the  seething  mass  of  the  people  in  the  square  \ 
here  a  curly-haired  boy  with  golden  honey^ 
comb,  there    a   shy,  proud    maiden    bearing 


i6o  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

tenderly  on  her  arms  a  bleating  lamb,  decked 
out  with  ribbons.  All  longed  for  a  sight  of 
their  new  master. 

Little  by  little  they  now  disappeared  in 
the  arched  eii^rance,  where  to  the  right  and 
left  the  torches  flaring  in  the  iron  rings 
contended  with  the  last  clear  light  of  day. 
Ascanio,  usually  so  pleasant  and  friendly, 
as  manager  of  the  feast,  issued  his  commands 
from  the  doorway,  yelling  and  screaming  in 
a  most  excited  manner. 

From  hour  to  hour  the  mischievous  dis- 
position of  the  people  increased,  and  to  such 
a  pitch,  that  when,  at  last,  the  distinguished 
masqueraders  appeared  they  were  pushed 
and  jostled  in  every  direction  without  the 
slightest  respect  for  their  rank.  The  torches 
were  snatched  from  the  hands  of  their  atten- 
dants and  trodden  out  on  the  stone  pavement, 
the  ladies  separated  from  their  manly  escorts 
and  wantonly  insulted,  with  no  fear  of  a 
dagger-stroke,  such  as  on  any  other  evening 
would  instantly  have  requited  such  audacity. 

Especially  one  tall  figure  in  the  guise  of  a 
Diana  had  to  struggle  against  a  dense  ring 
of  low  ecclesiastics  and  schoolboys.     A  lean 


The  Malik's  Weddhio-,  i6i 


<=> 


haggard  man  was  parading  his  mythological 
knowledge.  "  Thou  art  not  Diana,"  he  said 
in  a  nasal  tone,  "  but  quite  another  person.  I 
recognize  thee.  Here  sits  thy  little  dove !  " 
and  he  pointed  to  the  silver  crescent  over 
the  brow  of  the  goddess.  She,  however, 
w^as  not  gracious  like  Aphrodite,  but  harsh 
like  Artemis. 

"  Away  swine,"  she  said,  vexed.  "  I  am  a 
true  goddess,  and  abhor  ecclesiastics."  "  Coo, 
Coo,  Coo,"  said  the  man  and  in  trying  to 
touch  her,  uttered  a  frightful  shriek  and  fell 
back,  and  moaning  raised  his  hand.  It  was 
pierced  through  and  through,  and  streaming 
with  blood.  The  wrathful  maiden  had  put 
her  hand  to  the  quiver  at  her  back.  She 
had  stolen  it  from  her  brother  and  with  one 
of  his  sharp  finely  cut  arrows  now  chastised 
the  loathsome  hand. 

Already,  however,  the  attention  of  the  mob 
was  diverted  by  another  spectacle  quite  as 
shocking,  if  not  so  bloody.  The  lowest  and 
worst  portion  of  the  population  of  the  town, 
pick-pockets,  cut-throats,  beggars  and  vaga- 
bonds of  every  description  were  yelling, 
whistling,  dancing,  joking   and    sneering    in 


102  The  Mo7ik's  Weddmg, 

front  and  behind  of  a  most  grotesque-looking 
pair.  A  large,  wild-looking  woman,  not  with- 
out some  remnants  of  beauty  was  arm  in 
arm  with  a  drunken  monk  in  a  tattered 
cowl.  This  was  the  cloister  brother  Sera- 
pion,  who,  spurred  on  by  Astorre's  example 
had  escaped  from  his  cell  by  night  and  for  a 
week  had  been  grovelling  in  the  slums  of 
the  city.  The  crowd  halted  before  a  lighted 
corner  of  the  palace  and  in  a  shrill  voice  and 
with  gesticulations  of  a  public  crier  the 
woman  vociferated,  "  Know  all  men  by  these 
presents  that  soon  the  monk  Astorre  will 
slumber  beside  his  wife  Antiope."  Hoarse 
extravagant  laughter  attended  this  announce- 
ment. 

Gocciola's  cap  and  bells  now  appeared  at 
the  open  turret-window.  "  Good  woman,  be 
still ! "  said  the  fool  in  a  whining  voice,  "  you 
wound  my  educated  feelings,  and  insult  my 
sense  of  shame." 

"  Good  fool,"  replied  the  impudent  thing, 
"don't  let  this  offend  you.  We  give  the 
proper  name  to  what  the  aristocrats  do. 
We  put  the  labels  on  the  apothecary's  boxes." 

"  By  my  seven  deadly  sins,"  cried  Serapion, 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  i6j 

exultingly,  "  so  we  do ;  until  midnight  the 
marriage  of  my  dear  brother  shall  be  pro- 
claimed and  sung  out  in  all  the  squares  of 
Padua.  Forward  !  March  !  Hey-dey !  "  and 
he  lifted  his  naked  leg  with  the  sandal,  out 
of  the  heap  of  rags,  which  was  all  that 
remained  of  his  soiled  monastic  dress. 

These  beastly  pranks,  added  to  the  infuri- 
ated voices  mingling  in  the  crowd,  beat  like 
a  storm  upon  the  outer  walls  of  the  gloomy 
castle  whose  windows  and  apartments  opened 
for  the  most  part  on  the  inner  court. 

In  a  quiet,  secluded  chamber  Antiope  was 
being  dressed  and  adorned  with  flowers  by 
her  maids,  Sotte  and  one  other,  whilst  Astorre 
was  receiving,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  the 
endless  swarm  of  guests. 

"  Sotte,"  whispered  the  bride  to  her  serv- 
ant who  was  braiding  her  hair,  "  you  re- 
semble me,  and  are  just  about  my  size, 
exchange  clothes  with  me  if  you  love  me. 
Go  and  draw  the  ring  from  her  finger  re- 
pentant and  humbly."  Bow  before  the 
Pizziguerra,  with  arms  crossed,  like  the 
veriest  slave.  Fall  upon  your  knees.  Throw 
yourself   on  the  ground.     Make  a  show  of 


lö/j.  The  Monk's  Wedding, 

the  most  abject  contrition,  and  pain.  Only 
take  from  her  the  ring.  I  will  reward  you 
for  this  service  royally.  Take  all  the  jewels 
I  possess,"  she  said  imploringly.  This  temp- 
tation the  vain  Sotte  could  not  withstand. 

Astorre,  who  turned  aside  a  moment  from 
his  duty  as  host  to  visit  his  beloved,  found 
the  two  women  exchanging  dresses  in  the 
chamber.  He  instantly  divined  their  inten- 
tion "  No,  No,  Antiope,  you  must  not  slip 
through  it  in  this  way,"  he  said.  "  Our  word 
must  be  kept.  I  ask  it  of  your  love.  I  com- 
mand it ! "  and  even  as  he  hoped  to  soften 
the  severe  word  with  a  kiss  and  a  caress,  he 
was  torn  away  by  Ascanio  who  hastened  to 
explain  that  his  peasants  wished  to  offer  him 
in  person  their  gifts,  and  without  delay,  in 
order  that  they  might  start  on  their  home- 
ward journey  in  the  cool  of  the  night.  When 
Antiope  looked  round  in  order  to  return  her 
husband's  kiss,  she  kissed  the  empty  air. 

She  now  hastily  completed  her  toilet. 
Even  the  frivolous  Sotte  was  frightened  at 
the  pallor  of  the  face  reflected  in  the  glass. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  it  save  the 
terror  in  the  eyes,  and  the  glistening  of  the 


The  Monk's  Wedding,  i6^ 

firmly-set  teeth.  A  red  stripe,  caused  by 
Diana's  blow,  was  visible  upon  her  white 
brow. 

When  at  last  arrayed,  Astorre's  wife  rose 
with  beating  pulse  and  throbbing  temples,, 
and  leaving  her  safe  chamber  hurried  through 
the  halls  to  find  Diana.  She  was  urged  on 
by  the  excitement  of  both  hope  and  fear. 
She  would  fly  back  jubilantly,  after  she  had 
recovered  the  ring,  to  meet  her  husband 
whom  she  wished  to  spare  the  sight  of  her 
humiliation. 

Soon  among  the  masqueraders  she  distin- 
guished the  conspicuous  figure  of  the  Goddess 
of  the  Chase,  recognized  her  enemy  and 
followed,  as  with  measured  steps,  she  passed 
through  the  main  hall  and  retired  into  one 
of  the  dimly-lighted  small  side  rooms.  It 
seemed  the  Goddess  desired  not  public 
humiliation,  but  lowliness  of  heart. 

Quickly  Antiope  bowed  before  Diana,  and 
forced  her  lips  to  utter,  "  Will  you  give  me 
the  ring  ? "  while  she  touched  the  powerful 
finger. 

"  Humbly  and  penitently  ?  "  asked  Diana. 
"  How  else  1 "  the  unhappy  child  said  fever- 


Ly' 


1 66  The  Monk's  Weddings 

ishly.  "  But  you  trifle  with  me ;  cruelly  — 
you  have  doubled  up  your  finger !  " 

Whether  Antiope  imagined  it,  or  whether 
Diana  really  was  trifling  with  her,  a  finger 
is  so  easily  curved !  Cangrande,  you  have 
accused  me  of  injustice.     I  will  not  decide. 

Enough !  the  Vicedomini  raised  her  wil- 
lowy figure  and  with  flaming  eyes  fixed  on 
the  severe  face  of  Diana  cried  out,  "  Will 
you  torture  a  wife,  maiden  ? "  Then  she 
bent  down  again  and  tried  with  both  hands 
to  pull  the  ring  off  her  finger.  Like  a  flash 
of  lightening  a  sharp  pain  went  through  her. 
The  avenging  Diana,  while  surrendering  to 
her  the  left  hand,  had  with  the  right  drawn 
an  arrow  from  her  quiver  and  plunged  it 
into  Antiope's  heart.  She  swayed  first  to 
the  left,  then  to  the  right,  turned  a  little  and 
fell  with  the  arrow  still  deep  in  her  warm 
flesh. 

The  monk,  who,  after  bidding  farewell  to 
his  rustic  "guests,  hastened  back  and  eagerly 
sought  his  wife,  found  her  lifeless.  With  a 
shriek  of  horror  he  threw  himself  upon  her 
and  drew  the  arrow  from  her  side,  a  stream 
of  blood  followed.  Astorre  dropped  sense- 
less. 


The  Mo7ik's  Wedding,  i6j 

When  he  recovered  from  his  swoon  Ger- 
man© was  standing  over  him  with  crossed 
arms.  "  Are  you  the  murderer  ?  "  asked  the 
monk.  "  I  murder  no  women,"  repHed  the 
other,  sadly.  "  It  is  my  sister  who  has  de- 
manded justice! " 

Astorre  groped  for  the  arrow  and  found 
it.  Springing  up  with  a  bound  and  grasp- 
ing the  long  weapon  with  the  bloody  point 
he  fell  in  blind  rage  upon  his  old  playfellow. 
The  warrior  shuddered  slightly  before  the 
ghastly  figure  in  black  with  dishevelled  hair 
and  crimson-stained  arrow  in  his  hand. 

He  retreated  a  step.  Drawing  the  short 
sword  which  in  place  of  armour  he  was 
»wearing  and  warding  off  the  arrow  with  it,  he 
said  compassionately,  "  Go  back  to  your 
cloister,  Astorre,  which  you  should  never 
have  left." 

Suddenly  he  perceived  the  tyrant,  who, 
followed  by  the  entire  company,  was  just 
entering  the  door  opposite  to  them. 

Ezzelin  stretched  out  his  right  hand  and 
commanded  peace.  Germano  dutifully  low 
ered  his  weapon  before  his  Chief.  The 
infuriated    monk   seized    the   moment   and 


i68       '       The  Monk's  Wedding. 

plunged  the  arrow  into  the  breast  of  the 
knight  whose  eyes  were  directed  toward 
Ezzelin.  But  he  also  met  his  death  pierced 
by  the  soldier's  sword  which  had  been  raised 
again  with  the  speed  of  lightning. 

Germano  sank  to  the  ground.  The  monk, 
supported  by  Ascanio,  made  a  few  tottering 
steps  toward  his  wife  and  laying  himself  by 
her  side,  mouth  to  mouth,  expired. 

The  wedding-guests  gathered  about  the 
husband  and  wife.  Ezzelin  gazed  upon 
them  for  a  moment  then  knelt  upon  one 
knee  and  closed  first  Antiope's  and  then 
Astorre's  eyes.  In  the  hush,  through  the 
open  windows  came  the  sound  of  revelry. 
Out  of  the  darkness  was  heard  the  words, 
"  Now  slumbers  the  monk  Astorre  beside  his 
wife  Antiope,"  and  a  distant  shout  of  laughter. 


Dante  arose.  "  I  have  paid  for  my  place  by 
the  fire,"  he  said,  "  and  will  now  seek  the  bless- 
ing of  sleep.     May  the  God  of  Peace  be  with 


The  Monk's   Wedding,  i6g 

you ! "  He  turned  and  stepped  toward  the 
door,  which  the  page  had  opened.  All  eyes 
followed  him,  as  by  the  dim  light  of  a 
flickering    torch,    he    slowly    ascended    the 


^0 

staircase. 


THE    END. 


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14  DAY  USE 

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